


Of Beasts and Fire

by BloodylocksBathory



Series: Of Beasts and Fire [1]
Category: Jonah Hex (2010), The Lone Ranger (2013)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Ass-Kicking, Biting, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Explosions, M/M, Past Abuse, Scratching, Tattoos, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodylocksBathory/pseuds/BloodylocksBathory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legendary outlaw Butch Cavendish crosses paths with an Irish ruffian-for-hire named Burke. Their immediate concern is whether or not they can partner up without killing each other, but they soon realize their seemingly simple heist will require much more if they're going to be getting out alive, let alone wealthier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Flash of Metal and Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to acknowledge the help of my good buddy Johnny, whose assistance and ideas technically make him a co-writer. Also, if it weren't for him, this ship wouldn't have me sinking to the icy depths, never to return... *shakes fist* Oh well, it's a great ride, so thanks a hundred times over.

The sun was high in the sky by the time one Mr. Burke rode into town, head held high like some foreign dignitary. Anyone who might have heard him speak would know that the foreign part was correct; dignitary, not so much. Fine lines in dark blue stretched as he grinned at the staring women he passed, ink permanently etched into his skin. The townsfolk were properly scandalized at the sight of him, and he loved the reaction. They knew he was trouble just from the sight of him, and they were right. Trouble was his way of life. Making eye contact with the ladies, he tipped a stained bowler hat at them and headed to the nearest saloon.

Light peered through the windows of the establishment, leaving a peaceful atmosphere despite the rowdy patrons carousing about. Navigating tables of card players and booze-soaked brutes, he took a seat at the bar. Only one other lingered here, a hunched-over man in black cloth and hat, planted on a stool three seats away and keeping to himself. The bartender, not even looking at the stranger, poured him a refill of his drink.

"What'll it be?" the barkeep asked, approaching Burke, who grinned. Nearly every tooth showed.

"Whiskey, dear lad, if it please ye," Burke's accent left no doubt as to his place of origin, and he secretly delighted in the bartender's reaction, that little sneer he gave as he poured the whiskey.

"Ain't no railroads or mines in this town." The drink was all but shoved towards him.

"I know it. Just passing through, lovely," Burke replied with a smile that hardly garnered him any trust. The barkeep sniffed indignantly and went to washing dishes. Downing the whiskey in one gulp, he considered ordering another when he heard the main doors swing open with an angry clatter, followed by a small stampede of boots.

"There y'are!" a voice roared behind him. "We called the law on ya, ya dog-faced sonuvabitch. Just to make sure yer carcass is cleaned off the floor once we're done with ya!"

Garn, here less than half an hour and already he has their attention. Smirking, Burke turned on his stool to challenge the self-proclaimed heroes. He could use a good fight, and their arrival would do just the trick. He opened his mouth to speak, but neither the voice's owner or the rest of his team even looked at him.

"HEY! I'm talkin' to ya, Cavendish!"

Come again?

Burke turned to look at where the men's line of sight had fallen, and for a moment he was transfixed. The other man at the bar lifted his head, but did not acknowledge them otherwise. In the lifting of his head, his face drifted into the path of the sunlight, and a silver tooth glinted, adorned by a jagged cleft lip.

This really was him. Butch Cavendish. Butch bloody Cavendish. After a span of over twenty years, he was known less as a man and more a creature of legend. And Burke was finally only a few paces from him.

Taking a swig of his drink, Cavendish finally turned to face his challengers, his frame relaxed as though no threat stood before him – likely not. He reached for a gun at his hip, but the vigilantes quickly had him in their sights. The whole saloon had gone eerily quiet. Somewhere behind Burke, a tap was dripping.

While his friends continued to aim, the leader lifted his own gun, smiling at his good fortune.

"This is almost too easy," he gloated. "Big man, Butch Cavendish, killer of all things livin'. Redskin ravager. Flesheatin' bastard they say hell would spit back out... and he's about to be nuthin' more'n a blood stain on the floorboards."

So busy was the clueless bastard in his smug rambling that he failed to notice the full spittoon by Cavendish's feet. Drool and spent tobacco juice trailed the arc of the spittoon's journey through the air when the outlaw kicked it. Burke could have sworn that time had slowed. The vessel hit its target, a worthy distraction as Cavendish grabbed his gun and fired. All three challengers hit the floor, both theirs and the spittoon's contents seeping into the wood below. As Burke looked back to the bar, Cavendish was polishing off his drink.

 _He lives up to his reputation_ , Burke thought.

Easing into a well-practiced air of charm and good will, he slid off of the stool and took a seat right next to the man. Cavendish's gun was promptly aimed at him before he had completely settled in. Burke was in no way discouraged. He kept a hand on a gun of his own.

"I like your approach, fella," he addressed him as though meeting with an old friend. "In fact, ye'd be good for a job I'm on my way to, could use someone with your panache."

Cavendish seemed to be ignoring him, but Burke could have cared less; he still had not been shot, so he continued.

"Ye see, I'm headed South. Pays mighty big. Whatta ye say?"

In his offer, he noticed Cavendish had stopped staring at the bar's surface. He had been listening after all.

"South where?" He finally spoke, his voice a feral concoction of gravel and snake venom.

"South of the river. Ye know, the one that looks like a great fat blue caterpillar."

Cavendish tilted his head, still not quite looking at Burke.

"To meet an envoy?" he asked. His hoarse voice was starting to take on a dangerous tone. Burke hesitated to answer an affirmative.

"Oh, so you know."

Burke expected a repeat of the spittoon and dodged the glass which was thrown at his head. By the time both men were on their feet, they were trapped in a standoff. They now had the chance to properly look at each other.

The mouth itself, with its harelip and silver tooth, was not the exclusive mark of Cavendish's intimidating image. His skin saw little cover from the sunlight and desert, tanned and worn from the elements. He was strong, but all sharp angles, no softness whatsoever. Hollow cheeks and sockets matched the sharpness of his bones. A rattler's tail was tied into a lock of his dark, stringy hair.

Where Cavendish's visage was rough and harsh, Burke's was soft and pale, betraying his heritage. Though the older criminal had not shaved in days, the younger was clean-shaven, wearing a beard of ink instead. His tattoos, all detailed arches and curves on his jaw and neck and interlocked patterns on his forearms, were what made him look so fierce. Those and his yellow teeth, when he bared them a certain way.

"So, how many other men have ye killed for goin' after the same job?" Burke asked, playing the bold fool. If he could keep the old bastard distracted with nonsense, perhaps he could get the upper hand.

"Enough," Cavendish answered, his split lip curling to further reveal his jagged snarl. He looked able to bite the head off of a cat with those teeth. "More'n one party goin' after the same prize is mighty inconvenient."

"To say the least," Burke replied with a smile. "Still... the two of us helping one another... you're capable, and so am I."

"Is that a fact?"

Their confrontation barely went further, as both were interrupted by the voice of a man calling them from outside. Rolling his eyes, Cavendish cautiously walked to a window and peeked through the slats to the main road. Burke, standing on the other side of the room, saw reason to do the same. Four lawmen stood waiting for them, one of which was the town sheriff.

"We know you're in there, Cavendish!" the sheriff yelled. "Don't make this any worse than it needs to be! Just come on out!"

 _This song and dance is always the same_ , Burke thought. _And it's gettin' old right quick_.

Looking past the doorframe, he saw that his newfound rival seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Silver blue eyes stared back at his hazel ones. Cavendish looked away for a moment, weighing his options, then replaced the bullets he had fired. He looked back at Burke, who was smiling with the excitement of a child about to open a birthday gift. Their fight would have to wait. They had rats that needed wiping out.

Turning toward the card game, Burke pointed his gun at the players.

"I'd like to issue an invitation for hostages."

Outside, the lawmen were about to give up on waiting when they heard Cavendish shout through the window slats.

"Alright I'll come out nice and slow!"

The sheriff trusted the announcement as far as he could throw his quarry, but he could not stand in the road all day waiting for this bastard. "Fine, stop whistlin' Dixie and come on out!"

The door slowly swung open, initially leaving the lawmen unable to make out where their target was in the dark of the saloon. Just as their eyes began to adjust to the interior, a figure flew out into the open, gun in hand. The sheriff's men, already spooked, opened fire at what the sheriff could already clearly see was not their man. The unfortunate bastard hit the dirt, his death likely slow while those still standing moved at frantic speed. Cavendish threw himself from the doorway with another man close behind, both wielding pistols. Shots were fired in a disorganized panic and both Burke and Cavendish could have almost laughed at the lack of manpower this town had. Perhaps the latter's reputation preceded him, Burke surmised.

All three men became personal with the criminals' bullets and were on the ground with the card player in little time at all. One particularly stubborn bastard refused to stay down or let go of his gun. Cavendish turned to the lawman, raising his gun to shoot, when the flash of a very large knife spun through the air and firmly into the bastard's head. He watched as the skewered man hesitated, dropped his gun, slumped, and finally collided with the dirt.

Cavendish glanced at Burke, who casually strode over to the body, pinned its head to the road with his foot, and removed his knife from the entry wound, wiping the blood from the blade onto his victim's clothes. Burke looked up at Cavendish, who was aiming his gun at him once more. The Irishman stood up straight.

"Ye couldn't have shot him," he pointed out. "Nor me now. You're out of bullets."

Ghostly blue eyes narrowed and darted toward the gun's barrel. Son of a bitch was right. "If that weren’t the case… is your knife faster'n my gun?"

Burke smiled. "Perhaps not. But I am damn near perfect with it, so ye never know..."

"Maybe not perfect," Cavendish retorts. "I ain't much for folk who're all talk..." He nods toward the dead lawmen. "Even though all this sorta backs it up."

Burke grinned as though receiving a glowing compliment from a suitor.

"What's that ye yanks say? Shucks?"

Cavendish lifted an eyebrow.

"As I was saying before we were interrupted..." Burke slowly put his knife back in its holster, though his hand did not leave the handle. "If we partnered up"--

"Don't need a partner," Cavendish cut him off, refusing to lower his gun. "Got all the help I need."

"D'ye have an expert in incendiaries?"

"... what?"

"Things that blow up, brother!" Burke exclaimed, smiling wider. Cavendish was uncertain he could trust anyone who smiled this damn much. "I figure, ye need someone for every deed on an adventure such as this."

"I'm already sick of hearin' ya talk," the other man grumbled. Great, just what his day needed: a big-mouth cock-of-the-walk Irish.

"I suspect ye might be attacking the envoy under the guise of someone they could trust," Burke offered. When he received a sharp look, he promptly added, "it's how I woulda done it too. But ye can't go shootin' holes into whomever's gettin' their uniforms stolen. Too much blood, too much ruin, ye'll be found out before y'even get close. If I help ye, there be no problem with that."

Cavendish did not immediately answer, though he knew he had no time to waste. With at least six people dead, he needed to leave town as soon as possible. Before he lowered his gun, he asked one more question.

"Is it better than your shootin' anyway?"

Burke's grin became predatory. "It's bloody brill'int."

A few more seconds of deliberation later, the gun was finally lowered.

"You got a horse?" After a nod, "you step outta line once, you're out in the desert with your guts laid open and stuffed fulla scorpions, understood?"

"Understood," Burke echoed, though again his smile was not the most trustworthy sight.

The scarred outlaw kept an eye on his questionable new partner, even as they mounted their horses. In all the years he had lived, Butch Cavendish knew survival meant never granting anyone his full trust, not even his own men, most of which having known him well over a decade. Only the dead were incapable of betrayal. If this Irish bastard still had not screwed him over by the end of his job, he would still kill him anyway and take his share of the reward. He knew enough about the ways of the world that he had no question in his mind Burke was plotting to do the same.

"Where to, flower?" Burke asked him. Cavendish ignored the strange endearment and pointed down the main road to the West end.

"You ain't followin' me, bein' at my back. Ride on in front and I'll tell you where to go."

Undeterred, Burke did as told, riding several paces ahead before stopping and looking back.

"Good lad, born leader."

Cavendish swore, before this job was done, that damned smile would be gone before he snuffed out the tattooed bastard's existence.


	2. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke tries to gain approval from the gang in the best way he knows how.

"Who the hell is that?"

Barret looked up at Ray, who had been standing watch, and joined his side to get a proper look. His compatriot was peering into a spyglass with his good eye, lip curling to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. Taking the glass, Barret looked into it and saw Butch returning, but with someone accompanying him.

"Damned if I know." He looked back at Jésus, who was already laying on his belly, rifle aimed at the oncoming rider.

"You want me to blow his brains out?" Jésus asked with a grin, eye wandering down the muzzle.

Barret pursed his lips, considering. "Naw. Boss's guns ain't out. Stranger ain't no threat." He paused. "Not yet anyway."

So the gang waited on the hillside, watching as their leader rode toward them with the unknown figure a few yards ahead of him. The two did not arrive until twenty minutes had passed, and the welcome bordered on frigid.

"Gang, Burke," Cavendish announced half-heartedly as he dismounted. "Burke, the gang. This spud-eater's gonna help us out on the job."

The gang was silent, considering the news. "That further splits the loot," someone in the back remarked. "Fuckin' Irish," another muttered. Burke's smile was unwavering.

"Not to doubt your decision, Butch," Barret pointed out, "but what the hell can he add to this job that we don't already?"

Burke gestured toward his horse. "Right question to ask, brother. I'd like to show you sommat." He placed a hand on the sizeable pack his horse carried.

"See this?" He lifted a flap and removed a stick of dynamite. "More where that came from. I caught wind of the same gig that you boys and Ol' Butch heard tell of." He flipped the stick in one hand as he removed a match, hearing a hammer get pulled back behind him in response. Burke chuckled. He just loved to tease... but not so much to get a bullet in his brain. The match (and thus the fuse) remained unlit.

"I expect you plan to shoot some soldiers or coppers, take their rig-up, fool the envoy," he continued, still flipping. "Guns are useful, aye. But if we're to be taking some dead'uns' clothes, be best not to bloody 'em. That's where I come in."

Some of the gang seemed a little more convinced than others.

"And if it doesn't work?" Jésus asked.

"Then we shoot him in his pearly white ass and keep goin' with the job," Cavendish answered.

"Good incentive," Burke nodded.

*

Butch and his gang watched from over thirty yards away as their new accomplice set the trap. As according to plans, an easier route had been blocked off by a downed, seemingly healthy (and not at all deliberately chopped) tree, thus travelers would have to take a path along a creek. The dynamite in Burke's possession had been laid in parallel lines along the water, and at present he was setting up the wiring to connect it to a detonator where the gang was observing. Several members stared at the contraption's handle, but only one edged towards it.

"Maybe we could take'im out with'em... then the 'splosives would be ours."

"Frank," Cavendish addressed him, his voice a low growl. "Any part of you touches that, you ain't gettin' it back."

The scrawny man shrank away, all joking forgotten. Another laughed at his embarrassment and got a punch to the arm in response.

Looking through the spyglass, Cavendish watched as Burke finished with his wiring and hurried back up the hill to where his compatriots awaited him.

"So?"

"So!" Burke's grin could likely not be removed with a knife. "Now we just sit tight and wait for our chums to come 'round the bend."

"We wait long enough, we'll miss the envoy too," Cavendish pointed out.

"It's a common enough route," Burke replied. "They'll come. I promise, swear on me mam's grave."

"Yer 'mam' ain't here, and neither is her grave," Barret remarked plainly.

"They'll come," Burke insisted, ignoring him.

An hour passed, then another, and some of the gang was nodding off by the time the sound of galloping hooves approached. The felled tree had been a success. Staying close to the ground, the group watched as several men on horses came careening down along the creek. Through the spyglass, Cavendish could see soldiers' uniforms.

"Lovely," Burke said, watching the distant riders.

"Knowin' our luck, those uniforms are already stolen," the other said to himself with a smirk. He nodded to the Irishman. "How much closer?"

"Almost..." Burke muttered, a glint in his eye and his tongue sliding over teeth as he wrapped his fingers around the handle. Butch recognized the excitement. What Burke felt now was likely the same as how he felt about burying his knife into someone's guts.

"Just about... there!" Burke activated the detonator.

Though the gang expected quite the commotion, the result still thrilled them as though they had seen an explosion for the first time. Horses practically shrieked as they were thrown from the ground and creek, their riders parting from their backs. Bodies already in shock from the concussive blast hit the rocks below. Neither soldier nor horse would be getting up any time soon.

Burke stood up and hollered out his glee for the destruction he had caused, most of the gang joining in out of instinct. Only Butch was quiet, calmly surveying the carnage below before nodding to Barret, giving his gang the all-clear. The men ambled down the hill, Burke running ahead of them, giggling like a madman. Cavendish took his time following, still looking at the carnage at the creek. From this distance he could not be certain, but the uniforms certainly looked in far better shape than if guns had been used. He was impressed, but he would only admit that to himself.

Guns out, Butch and his gang - and one very enthused new partner - approached the carnage at the creek, ready to finish off any survivors. The horses had fared better, though in the long run they would suffer longer, unable to right themselves and slowly succumbing to their wounds. Surprisingly, only one of the soldiers was still alive, dazed and trying to crawl away to God knew where. Cavendish stilled him with a bullet through the back of his head. He looked over the state of their newfound disguises and noted with some satisfaction that, though a little frayed around the edges, they would be much easier to clean than if they had been splattered in blood.

Burke looked at the gang's leader expectantly. "Well?"

Cavendish nudged at the dead soldier's body with his foot, then cocked his head.

"Could be better."

"Ach, that's cruel," Burke shook his head. This Butch was a tough nut to crack, but Burke did not worry. He knew he could win anyone over, and winning over the old bastard he had built an unsteady truce with was going to be a challenge he mightily looked forward to.


	3. Clean Clothes, Dirty Deeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under disguise, the posse take their next step towards the riches, but Burke can't be bothered with rules.

Several of the gang were not pleased about having to clean themselves, but they had to concede that soldiers were a little more scrubbed up than they were. The dead soldier's uniforms were already washed of their soot and left in the sun to dry so they agreed to follow through. Walking up-river, away from the flow of horse blood and ash, they all undressed and had themselves an impromptu bath.

Apart from Frank, who seemed lost in his own little world as he swung his arms to and fro, staring at his reflection in the water, the rest spent their time wisely. Some were already drying themselves alongside the uniforms whilst sitting on the rocks, resembling lizards sunning themselves.

Amidst unwashed bare skin, one body stood out glaringly. Burke lay on his back in the stream, placed his head under the current for a few seconds, then rose from the water and walked to the bank. Cavendish was no stranger to those with tattoos, but he had seen few as extensive as Burke's. Within the curling shapes which covered the length from jaw to below the collar bone were smaller curves, making the shapes all the more intricate. The patterns circling his arms, however, were different in design, all interlocking straight edges running in rungs and triangles from his shoulders to the back of his hands. Without the illustrations permanently laid into his flesh, Burke could likely attract men and women alike. Hell, the females would likely trip over each other for a lay just from his stupid flirtations alone.

The blue lines seemed to make Burke's Irish complexion all the whiter. Barriers marked where his clothes usually covered him, which was palest of all. A few scars littered the otherwise soft-looking skin, but in comparison Butch's toughened hide was like a map of hardship. His new partner's appearance was fascinating to someone born and raised in the desert... among other places.

Burke knew he was getting stared at, and as always, welcomed it. He had not gotten his tattoos with the intent of being ignored. He especially did not mind the observation from this particular audience, and he strode with a slight bounce in his step, causing other things to bounce. He heard Cavendish spit and turned back to see the man deliberately looking away. Burke would have laughed if he knew he could survive doing so.

As he took his good sweet time drying and dressing, he watched Cavendish return from the water and happened to look down just as the man passed. In doing so, his eye caught a peculiar sight. Apart from the expected marks of a rough life in the relentlessly brutal West - including that captivating split lip - the gang's leader had a noticeably disfigured right foot. Three of the furthermost toes were missing, as though someone had simply cut them off long ago.

"Cut 'em off himself," a voice whispered behind Burke. He turned to regard one of Butch's gang, a bearded youth who went by the name Skinny. Not an inappropriate name anyway; Burke suspected the beard was an attempt to make the young man's pimpled face look more intimidating. It... hardly worked.

"Beg pardon?"

"For a bet," Skinny explained with a grin. "He cut off part'a his own foot. No liquor to help him or nothin'. And that ain't all. Afterwards..."

"Alright, get yerselves dressed already!" Cavendish barked out the order, already half in his soldier disguise. The gang followed his command, hurrying as though their new conquest was approaching. Burke, still quite naked whilst others were in various states of dress, thought about the gang's next course of action would be. Finding that damn envoy would be the real trick, but hearing what he had heard - likely the same that Butch had heard - he knew the travelling representative only had so many routes to travel in this barely manageable stretch of land.

Most of the injured horses were dead by the time the gang mounted their own and took off, leaving carcasses both human and equine to be picked apart by birds and perhaps some desperate Indian passersby.

Burke thought over what Skinny had told him about Cavendish and the few details only made him want to find out more. Figuring out how to do so would be the tricky part, but this did not concern him, not in the least. He did not know how long it would take, but what he did know that this adventure was going to be more fun than he initially thought.

*

The ride carried on into the night, and by the time dawn broke over the horizon, the Cavendish gang had found very telling tracks. Not only had they found horse hooves, but also wheels. Of course. This envoy was said to include some studious bastard who likely chafed at the very thought of being outside. Further along the trail, one of the gang found the remains of a discarded cigar, its odor still fresh. They were close.

Less than an hour later, they came upon their designated prey. Sure enough, at the center of a ring of guards on horses was a coach. The gang did not hesitate as they continued to ride toward the envoy. After all... they were trustworthy soldiers.

The guards seemed to buy into the ruse themselves, at least at first. They did not raise their guns at the approaching sight. In fact they waved. Only when the gang was close enough for their unshaven faces - not to mention one very tattooed face at back - to be visible did an uneasy sense of suspicion rise up amongst the fleet.

"Mornin'," Barret, who was most inconspicuous, greeted them. Cavendish's horse stood right behind him.

"Mornin'," a guard returned, hesitant to be so friendly as before. A silhouette appeared at the window of the carriage door, then ducked out of sight again. "Been ridin' very long?"

"Monstrous long," Barret replied, plucking a white glove off of his hand one finger at a time, eagerly playing the part. "We're on our way to meet with the rest of our platoon."

"Truly?" Another guard said. "Who's your captain?"

"Our captain." Barret stroked at his chin as he pretended to think hard, and the rest of the gang began to chuckle. "Let me think... our captain, he would be..."

"Would be me, ya dog dick," Cavendish said, whipping out his gun and firing. His men did the same, and the guards only managed to remove their own weapons and fire three times before they were dead on the ground. Their horses scattered in their panic from the commotion, even those tied to the coach, which were cut loose by Skinny and Frank. The drivers, helpless and worthless to the gang's plans, landed on their heads as they were shot off of the driver's box, their lifeless forms flopping like rubbish in an abattoir.

Inside the coach, the remaining envoy was rather silent. Gesturing a command, Butch watched as several of his men dismounted and snuck over to the coach, mocking politeness as they rapped on the door. Prepared in case the little shit had a pistol, as well as the impudence to actually shoot, they opened the coach with guns aimed.

"Don't hurt me!" a voice shrieked from within. The gang laughed and jeered.

Pulled from the coach was a twitchy gentleman who looked to belong more in a library than the wilds. With his groomed features, fine attire and polished spectacles, he was just asking to be tossed in a mud puddle, but the dusty road would have to suffice. In his hands was a small box held closed with a latch, his grip spasmodic and his eyes racing back and forth between the dead and the living.

"Be a dear and give us the box," Ray said, his gun against the man's forehead. The bookish man quivered, and his grip looked nearly able to smash the case in his hands, knuckles white from the pressure.

"Likely break yer fingers that way," another of the gang said. "Or we could just break'em for ya, then we wouldn't have to ask."

Hands shaking, the man finally held out the box to be plucked from his hands. Guns still pointed at the envoy, the gang passed the box to Cavendish, who dismounted and lifted the latch on the simple wooden case. Opening the lid, he looked inside to find a fragment of aged sculpture, perhaps even pottery, nestled among red velvet lining.

"Where, pray tell, did you get this?" Cavendish addressed the scholarly man.

"Please," the other begged, "I'm only supposed to send samples to my employer. I'm not a harm to you, I'm a professor, a historian!"

Ray pulled back the hammer on his gun, wordlessly urging the fool to answer the question. The historian swallowed, then did as told.

"We're returning from an excavation. It's a piece of a relic from an ancient Indian shrine. We found it in a cave. Very high value."

"Really," Cavendish said with a condescending smile. "Just how high are were talkin'?"

"A museum in England is willing to pay close to a thousand dollars for it."

Burke whistled, impressed. He walked over to the historian, kneeling in front of him and removing his hat as though to be polite, his arms folded.

"Where is this cave?" he asked, his tone congenial.

The historian stared at him imploringly, as though knowing his time would soon be up.

"Where the tracks go cold," he answered, "head Southeast through the wooded area, then follow the worn path. When you see a series of hills on the horizon, it's at the left of the largest."

Burke smiled. "Good lad."

The historian seemed ready to smile as well, except with a sudden swing of Burke's arm, the unfortunate man's throat opened up, gushing blood.

"HEY!"

Burke was tossed aside from the dying man and shoved against the coach by Cavendish. Their guns thus useless against the historian, the gang turned their weapons against the Irishman. Rattlesnake scales were in full detail before Burke's hazel eyes as a heavy boot pinned him against a wheel, and his vision followed up a powerful leg and into the livid man's face. Cavendish's own eyes were blazing with fury, and he looked ready to enact what had just happened to his prisoner.

"We weren't done askin' questions, and you ain't in charge of this job! My gang, my rules!"

Burke simply stared up at him and grinned, not intimidated whatsoever. "I'm not in yer gang, sweetheart. I'm just along for the ride."

No one said anything. A few jaws hug open among the gang as they waited to see Burke's fate. For all they knew, he would get strung up by his own innards. Still... the convoy had consisted of eight people, and killing their newest ally would make them one man short. Butch seemed to have come to the same conclusion, because he decided death was an inappropriate punishment. Instead he removed the leg pinning Burke... and kicked him right in the face. A sickening crack was heard by all as his heel connected with an Irish nose.

"We take the trail we were given," Cavendish announces, walking away from the now bloody Burke, who was currently holding his own nose and groaning. "Someone get in the coach, two more take the driver's box."

He turned and looked down at Burke, who was already opening the coach door, and kicked it closed.

"No you don't." Butch gave a smile, not a pleasant smile whatsoever. "You stay outside." He paused, nearly laughing. "On foot. No horse."

All of Burke's previous bravado and charm was sucked out of him in all of a second. He was no longer in the mood to play. He looked at his horse with its empty saddle. Fuck following this bloody bastard's orders, he was riding with the rest of them. His face throbbing with pain with every heartbeat, he stepped forward to mount, but was shoved backwards by the gang. His knife, still tinged with the historian's blood, was in his hand instantly, but Cavendish already had a gun aimed at him, not even bothering to look in his direction.

"Tie his hands," Butch said.

Wrists bound, Burke watched as his horse was bound beside another to the reins of the coach. Glaring, he hesitated before allowing his restraints to be taken like a dog's leash, lifting his joined hands and resetting his nose. His curses of pain and anger echoed over the plains.


	4. A Taste of the Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke keeps trying to get a handle on Butch, who refuses to oblige. Also, a spooky cave... sort of.

The journey carried on throughout the day. By the time the band of outlaws reached the wooded area described to them, evening was approaching. The men looked to their boss, waiting for his decision.

"I'd say..." Cavendish glanced in the direction of one traveler barely standing after their long journey. "Set up camp."

Burke collapsed in relief right on the spot.

Settling near a copse of trees, the gang built a small fire and started preparing dinner. Burke still lay where he had fallen, too exhausted to bother undoing his own restraints, and might have remained where he was had Butch not told someone to free his hands. Jésus took the opportunity to search him and remove his weapons while he was indisposed, but was interrupted by Butch himself.

"Leave him be. He's learnt his lesson."

"If you say so," Burke heard the Spaniard mutter.

Rotating his wrists, the tattooed man staggered to his feet and joined the group around the fire. Again he did not sit but rather tumbled into a heap in front of his smug compatriots. As the others ate, Burke snorted and sniffled coagulated blood from his reset nose. Pain still radiated from the center of his face, but at least his nose would not heal crooked as a banjacked cobblestone street. His spirit lifted all the more when he was tossed a skin of water and he took the time to wet his throat, which had been feeling as though it were full of dust since noon.

"You think he's gonna keep makin' that noise all night?" Ray murmured as the snuffling and sniffling battled with the crackling of the campfire.

"Give him some food," Barret said to one of them, "maybe it'll distract him."

One of the men lifted the lid from a pot hanging over the flames. As he perked up at the smell which wafted from within, Burke sat forward, not caring if the simple act of chewing would increase the pain twentyfold. The moment a plate was put in his open hands, he shoved the food into his mouth, ignoring the inevitable pain. The meat itself in the meal was tough and overcooked, but after trying to keep up on foot with folks on horses since morning, he could eat bones left for dogs, and happily. Already he could forgive Cavendish for the rotten day to which he had subjected him.

Sated and presently content, Burke lay back down in front of the fire, the grating sounds of his healing nose no longer heard. But then he began to sing and the gang considered shoving him into the flames.

"When my family thinks that I'm safe in my bed," Burke warbled, "from night until morning, I am stretched at your head"--

Just at the word head a rock sailed through the air and hit him right in the skull. He bolted upright and turned his head to look at the stone's place of origin. The gang all simply pointed at one another. Taking the painful hint, Burke ended his little performance, though not without a few grumbles about uncultured critics.

Rubbing his head where the stone had connected, something to his left caught his attention. Thirty paces away sat Cavendish, back against a boulder, his wide brimmed hat obscuring his face as his head dipped forward. He looked to be asleep.

Some of the gang noticed the way their Irish companion stared at their leader and smiled furtively.

"I wouldn't if I was you," Barret warned him. "Butch is a real light sleeper. Ya might say deadly light."

Frank eagerly joined in, whispering in case his own words were true. "I don't think he even sleeps a'tall."

"You try and sneak up on Butch, 'specially if he's asleep," Barret said, watching Burke observe the motionless figure, "he'll rip yet face clean off. With his teeth."

Burke glanced back at the men, then returned his gaze upon Butch, serenely amazed.

"So... the rumors are true."

"It ain't nothin' to shrug off," Barret said with an annoyed frown. "We're surprised Butch actually cared enough to keep the band from bein' one man short. You cross him again, you'll be without somethin' you'll definitely miss."

Burke only grinned at him. "That a promise, brother?"

*

Long after the rest of the posse had turned in for the night, Burke left his bedroll and made the slow, cautious walk towards the boulder where Cavendish slept. Just as a child would climb into a cupboard and open every jar after being warned against looking for sweets, Burke found himself unable to resist going near what was in essence a beast he had been told not to provoke. So far, however, he was doing quite well in his sneaking. As he came ever closer, he could see and hear that Cavendish's breathing was still a slow, even pace. Burke had no idea what he might do if he actually got close enough to place a hand on the other man. The game might be over then. Yet he was tempted by the notion of touching that split in Butch's lip, even if it meant his fingers would be chopped off.

One step further and he could piss in the man's face without having to aim. Barely even breathing, he leaned forward, considering actually reaching, when the gang's warning rang true. Cavendish's strike was so quick that Burke hardly had time to react. Instead he was thrown backwards to the ground, the air knocked out of his lungs. Gasping, he was just starting to regain his breath when he realized the knife against his throat was his own.

Cavendish was baring his teeth above him, but Burke smiled.

"Hadn't realized just how big that was 'til it was in another man's hand."

Butch did not seem impressed whatsoever by the double entendre.

"Stupid fuckin'..." he lifted the knife to stab, but felt the sensation of his own blade being yanked from its holster. He dodged just in time to avoid a slash that would have cut his jugular. Thrown off of Burke, he swung and only caught air. Both were quick, avoiding the assaults just as often as giving. Still, one of them had an unfortunate absence of spurs on his feet. Burke winced at the grazing against his shin from a kick and his faltering was enough to have the knife knocked from his hand. He was no pushover though, and he dodged enough jabs and slices until he could drive his fist into the other's gut. Butch's hold on the knife weakened and he felt it yanked out of his hand. He glared at the smug fucking grin on that bog-jumper's face and kicked out his feet from under him. Burke's knife was kicked from his hand, and before he could so much as try to lift himself off the ground, a pair of knees landed on his shoulders and the barrel of a revolver was pressed against his forehead.

Cavendish looked down at Burke as though the man below him were a mere insect about to be stepped on. Burke, however acted as though he was seeing the second coming of Christ.

"Beautiful," the Irishman said, grinning back up at him. "Just beautiful."

Finally Cavendish was taken aback, or at least that was what his loss of words seemed to indicate. Regaining focus, he pressed the barrel harder against Burke's forehead.

"What gives you the balls to try and sneak up on me?"

Burke tried to shrug under the weight of his furious companion. "Curiosity, lad. I just wanted to see if I could."

"And ya cain't! Any reason I should knock your brains out of your head and leave what's left for the buzzards?"

"I'm good," Burke replied, calm against the gun that could end his life in less than a second. "It's the reason ye let me tag along. It's the same reason ye didn't kill me earlier."

At the sound of the other's finger straining against the trigger, he quickly continued. "And maybe ye'll have a change o'heart when the loot's been got. But for now, like it or not... ye need me."

For a few agonizing seconds, Cavendish did not seem to respond whatsoever, weighing the options of letting an able member of the gang live or just getting rid of the massive annoyance right then and there. Removing the gun, he stood up and gave Burke a swift kick to the gut.

"Goddamn coal-crackin' paddy sonuvabitch!" he growled. The revolver returned to its holster, as did the retrieved knife. Picking up and holstering his own, Burke began to walk back to the campsite, giving a theatrical yawn. He paused, then turned to speak to Cavendish, who had already sat back down against the boulder.

"Y'know... I like you. And it's been a long, long time since I met someone I liked."

"Feelin' ain't mutual!" Butch snapped back.

Grinning, Burke returned to his bedroll and looked up at the stars as he tried to sleep. He had been exhilarated in that skirmish, feeling Butch on top of him, so very close to death. Any sane man would have given up long ago, but Burke was proud to say he was not sane. In those final moments before returning to the camp, he had realized a new reason as to why he liked Butch Cavendish as greatly as he did:

He was so much fun to play with.

*

Continuing Southeast, the gang emerged from the woods and found the worn path the envoy had mentioned. Fortunately for Burke, he was allowed back onto a horse for the remainder of the journey, and unfortunately for the other men, he had returned to his usual, cheery, irritating self. And once again he was singing.

"In the town of Athy one Jeremy Lanigan battered away till he hadn't a pound. And his father he died and made him a man again, left him a farm and ten acres of ground. He gave a grand... party..."

He trailed off as he looked behind, remembering the previous night. Sure enough, Jésus and another man had stones ready to throw. Clearing his throat, he decided to end the song prematurely, though he still maintained his cheerful disposition.

Minutes later, he heard another horse catch up to him. Cavendish had ridden to his side and was now holding up a skin of water for him to take.

"You wanna stay on this job, I ain't gonna drag your parched pale ass around the prairie," he muttered.

Burke grinned, eagerly taking the skin and drinking. "Aww, knew ye'd take a shine to me boyo."

Butch ignored him.

"What the hell brings an Irishman out to killin' and doin' dirty deeds in the desert anyway?" Ray, who rode right behind them asked. "Railroad or coal mine won't hire a spud eater, that's a helluva thing."

"Weren't one for caves or railroads, not buildin' them anyway," Burke replied with a smirk. "I prefer blowin'em up." He was happy just from envisioning an explosion. "All the pretty pieces broken apart, and the fire... lovely that is."

He looked around at the gang. "What do you think's lovely?"

"Purdy things," Frank suddenly says, his vision distant. Burke stared at him, but then noticed he was the only one doing so. He would not ask for clarification; he had a feeling he would find out more on the matter sooner or later.

"Whores," Jésus added, much to the approval of several others. "Come to think, closest town to us has a brothel."

Burke smiled in anticipation. "I like the sound of that." He turned back to Cavendish, whose horse had lagged behind by a few paces. "Is the boss gonna treat his boys to a bitta fanny?"

Butch spat, looking as though some had just shown him a bucket full of vomit.

"Fuckin' diseased rats, alla them."

Burke's eyebrows reached for his hairline, but he was more amused than surprised. He gave the other man a sly smile. "Is there something I should know? Caught somethin' that bit the leg of her?"

That captivating split lip curled into a snarl, and Burke loved it.

"Butch ain't too fond of women," Barret explained. "Whores even less."

"Oh, I dunno, I think ladies can be a good bit o'fun," Burke said. "Ye get'em under you, make them squeal..." He licked his lips. "Most fun when they make noise, and even more when they wiggle and fight."

The other men made agreeable noises, chuckling. The tattooed man looked back at Cavendish.

"Not even for eatin' then?"

Cavendish would not even look at him. "Gives me indigestion."

Burke laughed loud and long, liking this man more and more.

*

In total, from the intercepting of the coach to the hill just left of its largest fellow, the journey lasted around three days. En route to the excavation, Burke passed the time by explaining what the others had begun to refer to as his 'funny marks'.

"I was still just a boy when the muse came to me in the form of a travelin' show," he said dramatically. Cavendish had a feeling this story was well rehearsed.

"They bring wild men from all over the world, and the moment I saw the masterpieces on their skins, I had to get some for myself. See, these curled pointed ones," he indicated the ink running from jaw to chest, "come from some Polynesians. They tend to get their whole faces done up. Then the one circlin' me arms, they're from a fella shipped in from the Navigator Isles. Just another steppin' stone towards the man ye see before ye. Beautiful, aren't they?"

"You look like some clown Injun dancer with'em," Cavendish declared.

As usual, Burke was not deterred. "As long as I make ye smile, love."

Butch's eyes narrowed. How he hated this little scribbled-on green bastard. He hated his stupid-looking tattoos and his near solid white skin. He hated that idiotic grin that was nearly always plastered on Burke's face, especially the way its remnants stayed behind in recognizable lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. And what he most hated was the fact that he still needed the bastard. The moment this damn job was done, he was going to kill Burke with his own explosives.

*

"Where is everybody?"

Frank was the only one bold - or maybe foolish - enough to say what was on everyone's mind. Upon reaching the excavation site, the posse saw no one, and entered with expectations of an ambush. But no ambush happened. The place was utterly empty.

Exploring the site with caution, they found nothing but destruction. Tables were overturned, earthenware was shattered (though thankfully none matched the piece from the historian's box), and tents had been ripped to shreds. The cave, perched on an elevated hill of rock, emitted no sounds of work within.

"Maybe Injuns," Barret suggested. "Didn't take to kindly to their holy places gettin' dug up."

Frank fidgeted. "What if this place is cursed? What if WE get cursed?" Some of the other men, already spooked, felt all the more so at the notion.

"There ain't no curse," Butch snapped. "Anyone checked the cave?"

The men all looked at one another, refusing to move.

"Goddamn it," Butch grabbed a lantern and shoved it into the closest hand, belonging to that of Jésus, and shoved him forward with another of the group. "Git in there and find somethin'!"

Hesitating, Jésus finally lit the lantern and entered, nearly dragging his compatriot with him into the dark mouth of the cave. Neither came back out screaming, so the gang waited, some more worried than others.

"How'r you gonna spend yer share of the reward?" Burke asked Cavendish, who only told him to keep his trap shut.

Five minutes later, the two men emerged, both still intact and unharmed. In fact, they hardly looked frightened.

Jésus looked down at his leader with confusion. "Ain't nuthin' in there."

Cavendish looked not only shocked but desperate to punch someone. He stormed up the hill, grabbed the lantern, and shoved past the men, looking inside. The wait for a response was far shorter this time. A howl of rage echoed out of the cave, shortly followed thereafter by the lantern flying out of the entrance and bouncing down the stone slope.

In leaving the cave, Butch shoved much harder at his men. Jésus was able to regain his balance but the other was not. Stomping past the bruised man, he paced around the site like a tiger in a cage, wishing he could find some sort of clue as to where the damnable artifact was. But he found nothing. The relic in question was gone.

"Is it not here?" Burke asked from several yards away.

Butch paused as though in thought, then turned, his revolver in hand, and aimed. The shot ricocheted through the hills.

Burke hit the dirt like a sack of potatoes. The idea might have made Cavendish laugh if he were not still so angry. He took his time sidling up to the cocksure Irishman, his men having granted him space ever since his exit from the cave. He looks at the way blood seeps from the bullet wound in Burke's arm, staining his sleeve, and it pleases him, if only for a brief moment. Burke, whose hand was clamped down on the wound, lifted his palm to inspect what he deduced was thankfully superficial, then looked back up at Butch. He did not look fearful or even angry, just annoyed.

"Ye do me fucking nut in, y'know that?"

Cavendish's glaring face began to twist into complete fury, and he was about to kick the bastard's teeth out of his tattooed face for good measure.

"Butch, come look over here!" Skinny called out, interrupting his leader's thoughts. Fists clenched, Cavendish turned away from Burke.

"What is it?" he grumbled, walking over to where the young man was indicating and hoping for the little rat's sake that his discovery was worthwhile. Yet as soon as he saw the tracks of hooves and wagon wheels, his mood was already improving.

"Word travels fast," he said with a sneer. "And so do thieves." He turned to address the entire gang.

"Boys, the trail is no longer cold," he announced. "Some brash bastards have come in and taken what was rightfully ours to steal."

Burke, having removed his knife, was biting down on its holster as he used the blade to dig out the damn bullet lodged in his arm.

"They may've been quick, but we'll catch up with'em," he heard Butch announce. "Get on the horses!"

Burke frowned as the gang hurried around him, not surprised but not pleased either.

"What about this??" he indicated his arm, which was still bleeding.

Cavendish, already on his horse, turned and gave what Burke thought must have been the first genuine smile since their first meeting.

"Sure does warm my heart to see that smug puss o'yers lookin' so miserable. You can still set off a detonator with one arm, cain'tcha?"

Grimacing, Burke took a swig of the liquor before pouring some into his wound, and he stomped the ground as he dealt with the pain. He was able to grab a fistful of dirt before one of the gang took him by the collar and helped hoist him onto his own horse. Blocking the wound with the dirt, he looked at Barret, who had assisted him.

"You're lucky he decided to miss," the other outlaw said pointedly.

Burke winced at his arm, but grinned nonetheless.

"So, the feelin' IS mutual," he said under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> I Am Stretched on Your Grave - adapted from the poem "Táim sínte ar do thuama"  
> Lannigan's Ball


	5. Sharp Wits and Sharper Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, it's the gang that's ambushed, and Burke gets to see Butch's handiwork.

The trail went on with little trouble of detection until the next day, when the posse followed it into mountainous terrain. The ground became hard and littered with stones, and soon the tracks were lost completely, leading the gang to become more concerned with actually navigating the twisting paths. The place was eerily quiet, and all felt as though they were being watched. Even an idiot could deduce this path was deliberately taken by the bandits, not only to hide their trail but also to lie in wait on the boulders and cliffs above. Thus, the gang proceeded with caution, and while some looked ahead and others behind, the rest looked above. Even so, in their vigilance as they negotiated the vales, the gang still lost sight of one thing.

"Where's Burke?" Frank asked, alarmed. The entire group stopped, instinctively glancing around themselves. Indeed, the tattooed Irishman was nowhere to be found. Fists clenched, Cavendish's own suspicions were voiced by the others.

"He's abandoned us," Jésus grumbled.

"Probably switched sides too," Ray added.

God damn that inky bastard, Butch thought. He should have kept a closer eye on him, considering recent circumstances. He and his men formed a circle, guns out and ears straining in the silence. Not a bird called, nor a cricket chirped.

Then a pebble fell from above and Barret fired his revolver. A voice cried out from above, its owner's cover blown. Another took the opportunity to jump down onto the gang. A bullet missed him, and as he fought, more joined from behind the rocks. In total, Cavendish and his gang had six to contend with, and though the bandits were outnumbered, killing them was not such a simple task. No one saw the coveted relic in the skirmish, and they needed at least one of the bastards alive for questioning. No one wanted a repeat of the disaster narrowly avoided by Burke.

"Looks like we didn't need that paddy shithead's help after all," one of the gang said above the din as they fought their opponents.

As though waiting for the ironic proclamation, Burke rose from behind a boulder and let loose a shriek of maniacal glee, garnering the attention of all below him. Teeth bared like a rabid animal, he hurled himself onto the back of one of the thieves. The unsuspecting man clumsily went into a spin, his attempts at throwing Burke off of him comical. Having had enough fun, Burke descended to the ground and shoved the dizzy thief headfirst into a rock wall.

Slitting the throat of his own opponent, Cavendish found himself once more becoming the captivated audience to the most recent addition to his gang. Burke had not yet removed his gun or his knife, instead using his fists. True to the reputation of his Irish ancestry, he was a scrapper, and a damn good one. In between each violent exchange with one of the thieves, Butch caught himself looking Burke's way, noting the joy on the other's face as he fought and caused harm. Butch knew that thrill, knew the sensation rushing through him whenever his knife went ever deeper into a victim's gut. Though he kept much of that joy inside, hidden behind a feral snarl, it showed clear as a blue sky on Burke's toothsome, idiotic face. Fighting and causing destruction like this... that tattooed bastard unmistakably felt alive.

"Keep that one alive!" Butch shouted, shooting a thief shoved toward him by Ray point-blank in the face. Only one bandit remained. Laughing, Burke played for a few moments more with his foe before removing the man's own pistol, shooting him in the stomach. Such an injury would surely kill, but not for a long, excruciating time.

Burke stood over the felled man, snatched gun smoking. His arm still throbbed with the pain of his bullet wound from the previous day, and he had not taken the time to treat it beyond the liquor and dirt. Hurriedly rolling up his sleeve, he pressed the hot barrel against the gash, and he could have sworn he heard it sizzle, even over the sound of his own loud bellows of pain. Instead of stomping the ground as before, he kicked his downed foe in the backside, concluding his outburst with a chuckle.

"Oh, I can't wait to blow something up again," he declared.

The thief writhed where he lay, clenched, trembling hands hovering inches from the bleeding wounds in his stomach. Though his clothes were plain and his hair and beard poorly groomed, he was not a fit man. Whomever he worked for clearly could afford to keep him well fed. Butch sauntered over to the unfortunate bastard, scrutinizing the state of him before regarding Burke.

"I admire the restraint," he said, not without a little sarcasm. Stepping closer, he knelt over the man, tilting his head in false endearment.

"I expect there's more of you that's run off home," he says with a smile. "Now where would that be?"

The thief was silent, his eyes nervously darting back and forth between Cavendish and his gang a few paces away, and he would have remained so if Butch had not leaned forward and pressed a knee into his wound. The man screamed in agony, but a hand clamped over his mouth and nose, not only stifling his cries but obstructing air.

"Where?" Cavendish repeated. He removed his hand for an answer.

"Ff... financier..." the bandit responded between shaky breaths. "East... town, two hours from here..."

"Gimme a name."

Again, no answer, even as Butch antagonized the wound a second time. The thief glanced behind his interrogator once more, but apart from labored, pained breaths, he was quiet. Cavendish tore open the other's shirt, buttons bouncing off of rocks as they were broken away, and examined the damage done by the shot. The moment the shirt had been opened, Burke noted the silence which fell upon the gang, and as he turned to ascertain, he noted they were all watching their boss with grave intent.

"Not so keen on usin' that tongue, are ya?" Butch removed the knife bound to his leg, calmly brandishing it in front of the slowly dying man. "Shame to let it go to waste."

Trapped to the ground by his own pain, the thief could do nothing as the blade was inserted between his jaws and turned, forcing his mouth wide open. Butch reached inside, grabbing the tongue, and his knife went further. The man gave a muffled scream, gargling his own blood as the root of his tongue was sliced. Once he had pried the bulk of it away, Cavendish grabbed the tongue in his teeth and tore way the rest, chewing on his prize whilst the man in front of him choked and convulsed.

Though some of the men were too disgusted to watch any longer, Burke was entranced, unable to avert his gaze at the savage ritual. Finally, he was a spectator to the root of all those rumors. Butch Cavendish: outlaw, Indian killer, rogue, murderer... cannibal. Fixed where he stood, Burke felt his heart rate surge as the man before him devoured the tongue, disfigured lips stained with blood. Despite his love of spilling blood and wreaking havoc, Burke never had a taste for human flesh, and looking at the feast presently taking place, likely never would. Yet even as he felt an ounce of dread creeping through him, he also felt strangely... exhilarated. He likely appeared as a slack jawed idiot as he witnessed the act, but the danger of what he saw only increased a desire to see more.

Once finished with his meal, Butch searched the dead man's pockets, removing a handkerchief so that he could clean himself. Wiping his mouth of the blood, he did the same for his knife before returning it to its holster. Standing, he picked any stray pieces from between his teeth with his own tongue, swallowing as he noticed Burke's gawking. He leered at the tattooed outlaw before passing him.

"S'good. Ain't been ruined yet by tobacco."

The rest of the men followed Cavendish's lead as he checked his weapons and climbed onto his horse, but Burke hesitated, standing still as the boulders around him. His brain was still attempting to process what it had just taken in, as well as the feelings attached. Skinny happened to be a few paces away, and Burke nodded toward their boss, who was now out of earshot.

"Is that what happened to his toes then?" he asked. Skinny nodded eagerly, placing his things on his horse and mounting. Burke looked back at Cavendish, staring a few seconds more before joining the others.

"Feck me," he muttered with a smile.


	6. Beguiling the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang enjoys a house of sin while our heroes awkwardly bond.

Traveling East from the rocky territory, the gang approached a town by afternoon, nearly two hours as told by the thief their leader had questioned. The locale was not impressive, nor was it rich. Drunkards sat in a stupor on every other porch as though they were decoration. Buildings did not have roofs so much as rugged slats patched with tar and shingles which likely did little to keep out the rain. Still, a place of such poor economy and bleak repute had one advantage. Much to the men's delight, their destination was the same town Jésus had mentioned earlier in the journey, that which held a brothel.

Considering the assault from hours before, the entire band understandably entered the town with a cautious pace and keen eyes, ready to whip out their own weapons the moment a door might swing open too quickly. All in Cavendish's gang had double-crossed and done enough back-stabbings to know their quarry was likely waiting for the right time to surprise their pursuers, much like their fellows had done. Based on the time between the first attack and the gang's departure, the bandits had at least a ten minute head start, perhaps more if they had long left their compatriots behind.

"Maybe we got here sooner," Skinny suggested.

"Don't be stupid," Butch replied. "They're lyin' in wait fer us."

"Somethin' about this doesn't smell right," Barret remarked as he rode up to his boss's side. Butch grunted an affirmative.

"We ain't gonna waste time searchin' for them. What we do is sit tight, let'em come to us themselves."

"Sit tight where?" Burke asked.

"Where all the men go in this shithole of a town," Butch replied. Several of the gang grinned and snickered in anticipation, and their reaction gave Burke all of the information he needed. In fact, their idea of where to wait was more than fine by him.

*

What started as holding vigil outside in shifts devolved into most of the gang inside the brothel, Burke included. The only individual to never enter was Cavendish. Rather than enjoy the brothel's hospitality, he pointedly remained at his post, sitting silently in the light from within the establishment.

Dusk was approaching when Burke strode out of the house of sin. Leaning against the door frame with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in another, he contemplated the man sitting three paces away. Either Butch was intently watching the main road or deliberately not looking in his visitor's direction. Peculiar, really... some folks were easy to figure out, others had little bits of information about themselves which once uncovered revealed everything. Yet the more Burke found out about the cannibalistic outlaw in front of him, the more he wanted to know. Little nooks and crannies of Cavendish's psyche became imprinted on the Irishman's memories, looks and gestures, the way he walked, in case those details might reveal their secret meanings further on down the road.

Checking to make sure he did not have a gun trained on him, Burke took the empty chair next to Butch and sat down. Normally he was able to charm his way into anyone's trust, but unwinding this tomcat was going to be his greatest accomplishment. Still, if he were to dig any further, he would have to be careful. Any wrong moves or mistaken words might get something cut off. Or bitten off, rather. This would be the daintiest jig he would ever dance. Of course, he was not helped by the fact that he kept wondering how those teeth would feel on his own skin... or the back of his neck. Shoving the thought aside, he poured the two glasses full and held one towards Cavendish as a peace offering.

"Need sommat to perk your spirits?"

The other man did not even bother to look at him. "I thought you couldn't wait to have fun with the womenfolk."

Burke shrugged, setting the glass down. "Oh, gettin' yer hole's one thing. Hoors'r only fun for a short while. They only do what they think is expected of them. Nothin' genuine. I get tired real quick o' that."

With a casual air about himself, he pulled out the big knife at his belt, twirling it about his fingers with less effort one might give in opening a newspaper. Butch tried ignoring the display, but the movement caught his eye. As he continued to speak, Burke flipped the blade in the air like a child playing with a ball.

"By then, I either hump off and find somethin' else to do..." his familiar wolfish grin made itself known, and the knife stilled in his hand for emphasis. "Or I think up ways to make the night interestin'." He paused, shrugging again. "Not exactly wise if I'm lyin' low..."

"So you'd rather be out here pissin' me off," Cavendish finally responded, unimpressed. A thought occurred to him that if this inky bastard sliced necks and set off explosives as much as he shot his mouth off, he might actually be worthwhile to keep around.

Burke, however, was undaunted, and he smiled.

"I'm partial to the attention ye pay me. At least it's genuine. Genuine hatred, but genuine all the same. Also," he cocked his head, a movement that usually won people over, "it's been a long time since I found someone so fascinatin'.

Butch was already looking elsewhere, scanning the main road and not looking remotely interested in what Burke had to say. But he was not getting away so easily, because what the deformed man was not aware of was that Burke usually got his own way.

"So," the tattooed man addressed him, changing the subject. "I've heard tell it's the _hearts_ you eat."

"Maybe I woulda if someone didn't fill the damn torso with lead," Cavendish replied icily, still not looking his way. Burke put up his hands in defense nonetheless.

"Aye, my fault, I'll admit. Still... I didn't kill him."

"Well thank God for small miracles." The sarcasm was laid thick like gravy on meat prepared far too dry.

"Ye need a second pair of eyes?" Burke offered, returning his knife to its holster. "I can mind the fort here if ye want to fetch yer boys. Maybe even get somethin' different to drink"--

"Fine here," Cavendish interrupted his offering. "They know their way back."

 _Christ, this was like squeezing blood from a stone_ , Burke thought.

"You trust yer boys, yeah?" he asked, more out of curiosity than condescension.

"Ain't a matter of trust." Butch picked some grit from under a fingernail with his teeth. "They know not to disappoint me." He finally turned his head toward the glass closest to him and picked it up, sniffing before drinking the contents in one gulp. Burke lifted his own glass as though offering a half-hearted toast to Hell knew what.

"Most men gotta work hard to get that kinda respect, never quite get it. Not you though." Burke drank his own share of the whiskey. "Ye earn it well."

Finally Butch looked at him, eyebrow lifted. Even when Burke's face was serious, the tattoos which traced the outline of his lower lip gave him the impression of smiling. Butch's scowl instinctively deepened. By rights he reasoned he should just have the bastard in some dark alley somewhere and then cut his throat and leave him for the flies. However, they still had a job to do. Perhaps afterwards...

"And so do you, I suppose...?" he asked disdainfully.

"Well, some folk," Burke replied with a laugh. "Much of that comes from the tattoos. I thought, if I looked like the most ferocious fighters from the most exotic lands, it might get me somewhere. Works for the most part. Bein' mad craic makes up for the rest."

He poured himself a second glass, pleasantly surprised when his companion held out his own for a refill. He obeyed the silent request - or command rather, knowing this fellow.

"I assure you," Burke stated, "I'm just another gobshite fulla pure ballax."

"First thing on this whole damn job you got right," Cavendish muttered just as the other took a swig of the whiskey. Burke broke into a laugh, coughing on the liquor, and as he continued laughing, he saw the slight smirk on Butch's jagged lips. Perhaps he had a chance to dig deeper after all. He finished his glass before continuing.

"It drew some folks in. Knew this lad, name of Billy. Clever boy, mean as a viper. Didn't talk much, but I could tell I'd ensnared him from the start. But mean ain't the same as mad, so we stayed... colleagues. Not so much mates."

The way Burke said the word mates was not lost on Butch. From all of the dropped clues and conscious flirtations from practically day one, his drinking partner might as well have stripped naked like he had at the creek and outright asked for a roll in the dirt.

"Still, the ink gets attention. What about you? What I saw, ye don't have marks, not like mine anyway. More like proper ones."

"The hell you talkin' about?" Butch asked between gulps.

"Scars. Marks you earned."

A sneer twisted Butch's harelip. "Not alla them. This here," he pointed at the cleft which faded up into his nose, "I had since I clawed my way outta that whore that called herself my mama."

Burke faked astonishment. "The tooth as well? God, aye!"

Though the joke was not hilarious, it caught Butch off guard, and he allowed himself a smirk at the other man's silliness.

"Had it replaced. First one never grew, I reckon cause'a this split." His subsequent smile was not a pleasant one, more like that of a snarling beast. "Least it don't make me look like her."

"I like it."

Butch looked Burke straight in the eyes, looking for deceit and finding none.

"It suits ye," the Irishman added.

"Mm." Cavendish finished the rest of his glass, considering the compliment. "Them funny marks suit you too. Shows you fer what you are."

Burke smiled, faking innocence. "Irresistible?"

"Insufferable."

As usual, Burke laughed, but Butch hardly minded anymore. He blamed his generous patience on the whiskey.

The commotion inside the brothel seemed to grow, getting the attention of the two men.

"D'ye think we should gather the lads?" Burke asked.

"We need some stayin' indoors," Cavendish replied. "Just in case there's someone lurkin' ins"--

He was cut short by the shattering of the window as a bullet exploded through it. His bowler hat and coat shielding him from the scattered shards, Burke casually turned in his seat and looked through the empty frame, wondering if the bullet was meant for him or Cavendish. His brow reached for his hairline as he spotted the source of the shot.

"That's..." he trailed off, snapping his fingers as he searched his memory. "That's, uh... whatever his name is! One of yours!"

Rising from his chair, Butch cautiously peered inside and saw one of his men fighting a stranger in the far end of the brothel's ground floor. Patrons and workers cleared away from the struggle as the stranger pulled the trigger a second time, cursing as the pistol jammed. The other man reached for his own gun as a bottle was broken against the bar. His throat was slashed open before he could even aim.

Butch removed his revolver and leapt through the window as the unfortunate outlaw sank to the ground, steadily bleeding out onto the hardwood floor. The stranger turned to face him, but received a bullet to the shoulder. Roaring in pain and anger, the brute clamped his hand over the wound, blood seeping between thick fingers.

People scattered as Cavendish stormed forward, shoving bodies aside as he crossed the space between himself and the stranger. Burke, who followed right behind, managed to look over Butch's shoulder just in time to see a small object, slippery in the thug's reddened fingers, being held over a candle flame. The object ignited and was tossed to the floor.

"Look out!" Burke cried, grabbing Cavendish and shoving the both of them behind an overturned table. Women screamed at the ensuing explosion, and once the two outlaws lifted their heads over their makeshift shield, a patch of the floor was aflame and the stranger was escaping through a doorway at the back of the building. His voice all grit and fury, Butch ran past the fire in pursuit, but his target had vanished into the night. Still, a trail of blood ran out from hardwood to dirt. With any luck, this son of a bitch would be bleeding for a good while.

Returning inside, he saw a blackened wet smudge where the small bomb had been doused, as well as his own men scurrying down the stairs in various states of undress. The lifeless, now pale body still lay in its own blood several paces away.

One man down. Their quarry escaped. The knuckles of Cavendish's hands were clenched until they went white.

While his gang scrambled to dress themselves, Burke was already using his wiles on a small group of hired ladies. One was young, clearly a recent addition to the workforce, but most of them had been professionals for years, yet still he treated the lot as though they were all budding, gentle violets. Neither Butch or his men could quite get away with that sort of performance.

"The... forceful fella who just stepped out," Burke inquired. "Is he a frequent customer?"

Already several of the women were nodding. He could have had them eating out of his hand.

"Ol' Gregory," a whore, teeth brown from decades of tobacco replied, "he usually comes in every Thursday, once he's done with his chores like a good boy." She blew some smoke into his face, and Burke did not even flinch.

"Whose chores does he do, my lovely?"

"Jeffries, of course," the youngest worker interjected. "Wallace Jeffries."

"Owns most of the land," another added, receiving a gentle little chuck under the chin as reward. "Lives just on the outskirts. East."

Burke drifted a fingertip down the cleavage of the eldest, who had to have been at least sixty, winked at the women, and bid them goodnight. He strolled past the gang, now fully clothed, and approached Butch.

"We have a name," he declared.

"And we got a trail of blood," Cavendish returned.

"Headed where?"

"East."

Burke smiled. "We may have this bloody relic yet."

"May," Butch stressed. "We got it when it's in my hands."

The smile only grew wider. "Then let's get yer hands on it."

Turning on his heel, Butch charged out of the brothel, his gang trailing close behind. Burke hesitated, glanced at the bar where the fight occurred, and spotted a coin not yet picked up by the bartender. He pocketed it for himself before following the gang outside.

He was hardly through the front door when he could hear Cavendish ranting and roaring at the absolute absence of the gang's horses. Clearly someone had untied the halters in the short time that everyone was inside. Jésus and Frank had already retrieved one horse, with the former climbing into the saddle.

"Bring'im with ya!" Butch yelled, noticing another horse in a full gallop, heading down the main road. As it passed him, he grabbed the saddle and threw himself onto the animal, steering it to return to the group.

"Grab on!" he commanded, riding toward Burke, who obediently stretched out his arm. The grip on the Irishman's wrist was like steel, and he jumped as he was pulled upward into the saddle.

Cavendish had no time to wait for other horses to be gathered, not when he was so damn close to finding this relic and spilling the blood of the bastards who made this job harder than necessary. Once he saw that Frank was on the horse with Jésus, he turned his own ride East.

"Stay here and lay low," he ordered the remaining men. "We'll kill these cocksuckers and take back what we're owed with interest." He turned his head to address Burke. "And I'll need you to sniff out more'a those bombs."

"Whatever ye say," Burke replied. "Ye just won't be rid of me, will ye?"

Butch was glad you could not see that stupid grin. He dug his heels into the horse.

"Shut up and hold on before ya fall off."


	7. The Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes enter the dragon's den and kick ass. But can they do so for much longer?

The night sky was faintly illuminated in the distance, likely coming from a bonfire. The Jeffries estate, though small yet, was a clear silhouette on the dark horizon. Two horses rushed through a partially razed wheat field, one holding Cavendish and Burke while the other, ahead by several metres, carried Jésus and Frank.

Just then, a streak of light soared through the blackness of the sky, and neither Butch or Burke realized what it was until it dove into the ground ahead of them. Jésus had no time to stop his horse as the fiery arrow ignited a seemingly harmless patch of straw in front of him. The resulting explosion erupted right under the horse. Jésus and Frank managed to roll as they were thrown, but their horse fared far worse. The animal's neighs of pain sounded more like a human scream as it tumbled, bones breaking and hide charred. As they righted themselves, the two men were surprised by figures rising up from larger patches of hay. Wallace Jeffries knew he was having company, and he had sent out his own little welcoming committee.

"Don' worry, we'll take care'a this!" Frank called out, though both men who still rode did not even look back in acknowledgement.

Two more arrows rained down, both hitting fire traps, but Butch hardly flinched, his grip on the reins tightening. He rode on, avoiding the thickets of straw as fire burst upwards around him. Burke, with his arms encircling Cavendish, shut his eyes, not out of fear, but to savor the feeling of the heat against him, the thrill of being so close to the flames. He thought, if heaven existed (and if he somehow managed to get there), it would be as most people would imagine hell.

"I heard o'this man Jeffries," Burke remarked, his voice loud enough over the thudding hooves. "Mostly got his money through bullyin' and strong-armin'. Not very sharp."

"I'll make short work of'im," Butch simply said.

"Maybe," Burke returned. "But if he's mean like us, he could still be trouble. Always gotta know a man by more'n what he seems." He chose this moment to constrict his hold around Butch, who tried to ignore the action.

They came to a stop less than half a mile from the property, the sky more orange than black. While most others might have found the sight unnerving, Burke loved it.

"We'll go on foot the rest of the way," Cavendish said, and the other man respectfully dismounted first. Burke offered his hand to help Butch down, but Butch looked at him as though he had gone soft in the head. He pushed the hand aside and dismounted on his own, landing on his feet.

For a fleeting moment, the back of Burke's hand drifted against that of Butch. The moment was over as soon as it began, and the tattooed man pulled his hand away, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"It'll be fine," he murmured as they walked. "I've got your back." A pregnant silence followed, and Burke wondered if he had crossed a line and should expect to duck.

"You've been alright, Burke," Cavendish finally said, staring straight ahead. Not hearing a response, he curiously looked at Burke, who smiled at him. The smile was not even mocking, simply pleasant, as though he was moved.

"You ain't gonna gloat over that?" Butch asked.

Burke shook his head. The innocent expression was all the stranger with those tattoos. Again, the dumb bastard had Butch at a loss for words, so he walked faster, forcing the other to keep up.

A horse neighed in a nearby stable on Jeffries' property, and further still sat the opulent estate, far better in its condition than any of the buildings in the neighboring town. The bonfire still raged beyond, and the two outlaws surmised that this might be where the landowner was waiting for them. He would not be alone either. Though the town was neither large or lively, Jeffries would have no shortage of hired men. What dreadful odds... for his employees anyway.

As they passed the stable, the snap of a twig alerted them to a huddled shadow lurking within. One figure separated from the mass and lit a lantern, revealing three coarse men. Gregory was not amongst them, but Butch doubted that gunshot had been fatal.

"Whatta we got here, boys?" one of the ruffians announced loudly. "Some intruders trying to disturb Mister Jeffries' peace?"

"Keep it down, will ye?" Burke interrupted. "The horses are tryin' to sleep. Be a shame if the workers with any real brains be deprived."

The second of Jeffries' thugs stepped out from the stable, circling the two men and stopping behind them.

"Ya got a big mouth on ya, green-nigger."

"You don't know the half of it," Butch responded, unconcerned with the brutes prepared to kill them. They wouldn't come close to it, this much he knew. Both he and Burke would give them a taste of what they had to look forward to in hell.

The thugs removed their knives. Butch did the same, while Burke remained still.

"If it's all the same," Burke muttered, "have you got my back?"

"Don't have much of a choice," Cavendish answered. Technically he did. He could cut Burke deep and leave him to be picked apart by the workers whilst escaping, but he did not. He needed Burke's skill, and he needed to get rid of the men as quickly as possible. Their job was not yet done, and only when it was would he no longer need his impermanent partner. For now, however, they had killing to do. They looked at one another before their eyes darted in the direction of which of the men they would each take.

While Butch proceeded with his knife, Burke was once again elated at the chance to use his fists. His enthusiasm caught the thug behind him off guard, and soon the dagger once belonging to his aggressor was in his tattooed hands. The third of Jeffries' men, surprised by the unexpected advantage, hurried to assist his fellow worker, bringing his hands together and driving them into Burke's shoulder. Burke only laughed, his grip on the knife resolute, and swung his arm. Arterial spray temporarily blinded the thug on the ground as his companion landed on top of him. Struggling to get up, he was stopped by the same knife, plunged into his chest. He seemed to realize the irony of being killed with his own weapon seconds before he expired.

A scream from behind caused Burke to spin, worrying that somehow that sound had come from Cavendish. Instead, the cry belonged to the third worker, who clawed ineffectively at the outlaw who was now clamped onto his head. Blood seemed even more vivid in the lamplight as it emerged from between the man's head and Butch's mouth. The shrillness of the scream reached its peak as Butch finally jerked his head away, ribbons of skin pulling elastic and snapping as he tore away a chunk of flesh. It took Burke only two seconds to recognize the chunk as the thug's ear. His earlier attempts at discretion ruined by the scream, Butch considered shooting the man, but instead opted to drive his blade into the moaning bastard's eye, silencing him for good. He chewed on the abducted ear for a few seconds before spitting it out. It bounced off of the new corpse and into the wheat.

Breath heavy from the fight, Butch looked up at Burke, whose breathing had reached a similar cadence. Both wore the blood of their adversaries, though Cavendish wore the most, the crimson reaching from the lower half of his face to the breast of his shirt and waistcoat. As he licked the gore from his fingers, his eyes locked with Burke's, who took a step closer to him. Butch wondered if the front of his companion's trousers would tent at any moment. He certainly felt as though his might.

The Irishman lost his courage before he could come any closer, nodding toward the carnage instead.

"Not so subtle as we had planned, aye?" he joked. As he turned his head back toward Cavendish, he felt steely fingers grab him by the base of his skull and pull him into a kiss. His lips parted, and he tasted the blood on Butch's face, loving every second. He thought of the split in the other man's lip and considered licking it, but the kiss seemed over far too quickly. Burke was shoved away the moment their lips parted, not even granted the chance to put his own hands on the other. Butch had only wanted a kiss, nothing more.

What a shame.

Wiping the blood from his mouth with the sleeve of his coat, Cavendish turned and continued to walking toward the house, intent on reaching the bonfire. Licking his lips, Burke could have sworn he tasted more than just blood, some distinct element that belonged to Cavendish alone. Grinning, he followed the man around the side of the house.

As they cautiously approached the fire, they noted the outright drop beyond it. The Jeffries estate overlooked a cliff which lead into a vast expanse of prairie and rock. The panorama had to have been a glorious view in the daylight. Burke mused the idea of regularly pushing people off of the edge. Removing their guns, the two crept out from the shadow of the house and approached the fire.

Feeding the flames was a stout man whose loutish carrying did not suit his sophisticated attire. His hair was lazily slapped aside in pomade and his moustache could have afforded more grooming. He looked as though he might be more comfortable breaking legs and whipping livestock, and he likely was. Even so, he was clearly the one in charge of his surroundings, as well as the people around him. This was Wallace Jeffries.

"Evenin'," Cavendish announced as he and Burke aimed their pistols at the husky man. He calmly turned with a level of surprise one would have at a guest arriving at a party too early.

"Well," Jeffries greeted them with a smile. "A very good evenin'." He did not seem to notice the guns whatsoever.

"I'd wipe that stupid smile offa yer face if I were you," Butch growled, pulling back the hammer.

"Thank god you're not," the wealthy man said, his tone suggesting he was talking to mere children. Butch would have loved to make him into kindling.

A familiar click sounded behind him, and his jaw clenched as he begrudgingly lowered his revolver. Jeffries smiled and tilted his head in reprimand toward the pair, removing his own gun and aiming at Burke. Both outlaws dropped their weapons, hands up.

"Now, now," Jeffries tutted. "That's not how guests should treat a host. Naughty boys. Now what does one do with naughty boys...?"

Heavy footsteps approached and Butch felt hard steel nudge him toward the cliff. Jeffries nodded toward the edge, silently commanding Burke to join. Turning his back to the edge, Butch saw that the worker threatening to shoot was Gregory, and he felt a smidge of satisfaction to see the angry wound on the brute's ruined shoulder. Clearly, Gregory was still sore over the gunshot, because he continued to urge the men ever closer to the edge. Feeling gravel fall away from the edge as his foot lingered over it, Butch glanced behind him at the cliff face, where something caught his attention, but Jeffries' booming voice brought his eyes back to the matter at hand.

"Gregory!" what was formerly a dignified tone devolved into something savage, if only for a few seconds. He instinctively checked the composure of his hair as he regained his more proper facade, then picked up the revolvers from the grass. "Use some self control. Search them."

Butch looked at Burke as they were frisked, their knives confiscated. Burke regarded him like an old friend, a wordless reassurance: he had his back. Cavendish needed no comfort, but he was glad all the same to have an extra hand in teaching this stuff-shirted ogre a lesson before the night was over.

His gun still aimed, Gregory smugly shoved Burke's large knife under his belt, backing away from the newfound prisoners. Jeffries waved his own gun towards the house.

"Shall we?"

"We shall," Burke replied cheekily as he and Butch obeyed. Cavendish had no expectations of Jeffries' plans for the two of them, and he frankly did not give a damn. Whatever was to come, he was ready, and he would emerge alive as he always had.


	8. The Execution Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butch discovers the multi-headed hydra that is the truth.

Rather than enter through the front door, Butch and Burke were led to a side door. Initially Butch thought a party might be going on and thus their entrance was out of secrecy, but as he was roughly guided through the residence, he noted an uneasy silence which hung through the entire house like a fog. The side entrance had simply been the quickest path to where Jeffries wanted his prisoners. Lantern in hand, Gregory was their thuggish escort through the darkness.

"Move along now," the landowner encouraged with false congeniality. "I'll be showin' you to your accommodations. After all, it's an honor to have such a... distinguished guest as yourself in my humble abode."

Cavendish walked on, staring ahead as he was moved down a drab hallway. He saw nothing to be improvised into a weapon. In fact, the foyer had no furniture, no paintings, nothing whatever. He wondered if the rest of the house was similarly bland, the home of someone with absolutely no taste. Hell, even the most superficial of rich idiots had the sense to hang up pictures or lay down rugs to make themselves look cultured.

"You listenin', boy?" Jeffries snapped, grabbing Butch by the jaw with meaty fingers and forcing him to look his way. The outlaw was tempted to spit in his face. The proprietor smirked, and Cavendish realized that astoundingly he had found someone whose smile was more annoying than Burke's.

"Finally," Jeffries said. "Someone catches the notorious Butch Cavendish, and it's me. I been lookin' forward to this moment for a long time." He shrugged. "No personal vendetta, not nearly... I just wanted to be the one to snuff you out."

Butch could not ignore how moronic Jeffries sounded, this oaf trying in vain to sound like he was from high society. He could strut like a peacock and memorize phrases, but the truth was that he was just a criminal in a foppish costume. He was no different than his "employees", or his prisoners, except that he looked severely stupid.

"Now get a move on," Jeffries said, straightening and allowing Gregory to shove his quarry down the hall and through a door.

The neighboring dining room was decorated, but only slightly. The table was flanked by chairs but held no plates or silverware. Only cabinets hung from the paperless walls. Burlap sheets covered several large bundles which lined the floors. Most peculiar were the candelabras which held no candles. The only light available was from the lantern, which was now placed at the center of the table. His hands now free from the light source, Gregory gathered up some rope, obviously to restrained Butch and Burke's hands.

"Once I'm done with you, I'll be a hero," Jeffries explained proudly, "far beyond this bullshit town. My business would travel into other states, all from putting an end to one of the territory's most infamous criminals. Far less effort than the usual arm-twistin'."

Cavendish sneered. "What's the matter, Jeffries? That English museum won't pay you in U.S. dollars for that Injun relic?"

Jeffries stared at him for a few seconds, confused. Then his face lit up and he chuckled.

"Oh, are ya still searchin' for that thing?" He laughed a little harder, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "I sure was pleased to come up with that idea. Care for a drink?"

Ready to tell the man to go screw himself, Cavendish was both surprised and baffled when Burke stepped forward, calmly striding toward the landowner. A tattooed hand was out, taking a full glass.

"Thank ye," Burke said. Jeffries smiled at him as though he knew him.

Then the realization dawned on Butch, and he silently asked himself how he could possibly be so stupid. Jeffries did know Burke, that paddy piece of hog shit. There was no Indian artifact, nor was there a job to find and sell it. The envoy... the bandits... they were all a ruse to bait Cavendish into practically presenting himself to Jeffries on a platter. When the Irish son of a bitch had killed the historian, his reasoning had been the same as to why the gut-shot thief had nervously glanced at him: they recognized him. In fact, the only job which had existed was for Burke exclusively, to gain the other's trust and ensure that Butch would arrive in one piece for his execution.

"Ya done good, Mr. Burke," Jeffries commended his tattooed cohort.

Butch glared at Burke with blazing hatred, wishing he had his revolver. He did not even want to use his knife on the traitor; he could not touch him to even eat him.

"You're a dead man," he snarled.

For his achievements, Burke oddly did not smile, inked face grimly serious, perhaps out of fear.

"Not yet, sweet'eart."

Gregory's fist slammed into Butch's gut, knocking the wind out of him. As he struggled to regain his breath, he felt his hands tied behind him. Jeffries grinned haughtily down at his kneeling prisoner.

"When you're as wanted a man as young Mr. Burke here, his talents come in mighty handy to find another wanted man such as yourself." He walked over to an iron door. "Especially with the right incentive... such as a ship back to Ireland."

He waved toward the door, leaving Burke to nurse his glass of whiskey. "This room here? It's stayed closed until tonight. You may have noticed we're sparse on lights at the moment, and it's because of our quaint little room. Don't wanna bring a flame too near to it!"

Jeffries laughed as he knocked on the iron surface. "Inside is a cloud of... what did'ya call it, Burke?"

"Incendiaries," Burke dully replied.

"Yes, incendiaries. Y'know, I have to hand it to our boy Burke. Thunk up the fire traps in the wheat field, made us some little bombs for throwin'. And in this room, his piece-da-resistance. All made from the simplest of ingredients, all found here on this property." He lifted a sheet off of one of the bundles, revealing said ingredients. "Flour, grain, coal dust, and then eggs to make the flames stick, leave your backside good and poached."

The bastard could wax poetic about this killing until he was blue in the face, but Cavendish did not care. He was not afraid, not remotely, not when he was fantasizing the grisly ways he wanted to kill all three of these cockroaches.

Producing a key, Jeffries nodded to Gregory, who lifted Butch to his feet, dragging him toward the closed door. The outlaw allowed himself to be moved, planning his way out, perhaps a few well-placed kicks and blows when he seemed at his weakest. As long as he was still outside of that damnable room...

"Would you care to attend the viewing of your masterpiece, Mr. Burke?" Jeffries asked his uncharacteristically silent accomplice.

"Yer too kind," Burke responded, walking up to his employer's side, drink still in hand.

"Enjoy your last moments, Cavendish," Jeffries proclaimed, unlocking the door. "As well as you might be able to. I certainly will."

"Aye, wouldn't wanna be in that mess," Burke said, his expression brightening. "Should blow up the whole house."

Jeffries laughed agreeably with him until he seriously considered the man's words.

"You said it would blow up the _room_."

Burke winked at Butch before replying.

"Did I?" That familiar predatory grin returned. "You silly prick."

The whiskey glass was smashed into Jeffries' head, shattering upon an impact strong enough to make Jeffries drop the key. Both Gregory and Butch stared briefly in confusion at the assault before the brute stepped forward to assist his employer. Burke was ready for him however, and he scooped up a heavy bag of grain, hurling it into the oaf's face. Yet the glass was not enough to incapacitate Jeffries, who pulled out his gun, aiming.

"Don't want to be doin' that, brother," Burke warned, hands up. "Not near all this fuel."

In comprehending what was happening, Butch noticed Gregory rising again, and in that split second, he made the decision to involve himself. He could have escaped, or taken this moment to take his revenge on Burke. Instead, as the felled man stood up and began to charge, Butch threw himself forward and butted his head into the bullet-ravaged shoulder. He did not wait for the inevitable reaction, instead stomping the heel of his boot into the other's knee. Gregory dropped like a stone.

The spectacle distracted Jeffries for only a second, which was long enough for Burke to knock the pistol from his hand. Even so, Jeffries was respected and feared for more than just his money and control. Seams ripped and stitches popped as he swung his fists, face red with rage. But he was all blind fury, no focus. Burke was happy to face him.

As the two engaged in their brawl, Butch, hands still bound behind him, staggered on top of Gregory. Groaning in pain at his inflamed shoulder and dislodged knee, the brute rolled onto his back as he was straddled, looking up at the feral, near-animalistic visage which lunged towards him. The last thing Gregory saw were teeth, and the agony of those teeth sinking into his throat took over his entire brain as his lungs filled with blood.

Invigorated by the act of tearing out the bigger man's throat, Butch swallowed the flesh whole and turned onto his back. Burke's knife still lay within Gregory's belt, the blade exposed. Keeping an eye on the fight taking place just paces away, Butch worked to cut himself free, careful not to slice himself open as Jeffries grabbed a candelabra and hit Burke in the ribs. The rope snapped fibre by fibre until Cavendish could break loose, and he yanked the knife from his bleeding foe, hurling it just as Jeffries raised the candlestick to strike.

Jeffries was unable to speak, his breath forced out of him as the knife entered his back between his shoulder blades. He stumbled away from Burke, unable to reach far enough to remove the knife. His fingertips touched the handle, but went no further. His attempts at walking reduced to a crawl, the once powerful man crawled pitifully toward his pistol, movement too slow compared to Burke's casual stride. The landowner could hardly even gasp as the knife was pulled from his back. The pistol itself was kicked away from him. He watched it skitter across the floor and bounce off the wall, far from his reach.

Burke loomed over the man, nonchalantly wiping his knife clean on a handkerchief plucked from Jeffries' now ragged coat. He picked up the key from the floor, twirling it on his finger.

"I'll be honest with ye," he said, ignoring the moans of pain coming from the floor. "I ain't plannin' on going back to Ireland. Fact of the matter is I like it here. But I don't much like you."

Lifting the lantern from the table, he paused as though for dramatic emphasis on his former employer's fate. He looked back at Cavendish, who lingered by the door leading to freedom. Butch scowled at Jeffries, ready to see him go up in flames. Grinning, Burke threw the lantern against a wall, where it shattered and landed on several bags of grain and flour. The sacks went up like a tinderbox, and Jeffries' subsequent scream as the flames caught him was music to the ears of both Cavendish and Burke.

Confirming the door was unlocked, Burke opened it by mere inches and made a dash for the exit.

"Come on!" he cried. Butch did not have to be asked twice.

They ran as though the fire chased them. Burke slipped and knocked into a wall as he made a turn, but barely lagged behind. As they reached the side door and threw it open, he began to run for the field, ready to be as far away from the estate as physically possible.

"No, this way!" Butch yanked on the back of Burke's shirt collar, gagging him for a second, and he instinctively followed. The pair ran like hell straight for the cliff, and Burke was about to ask where they were to go next when he received the next order.

"Jump!"

Burke's eyes bugged. "I ain't that mad!"

Cavendish did not argue. He once more grabbed Burke by the shirt and leapt over the edge. The tattooed outlaw thought his life might have flashed before his eyes in the time between jumping and landing amongst branches. Realizing he was not dead, he clung to the tree growing out of the cliff side next to Butch.

A thunderous explosion brought a hellish orange light which reached far beyond the cliff's edge, and flaming pieces of the house went hurtling past the outlaws. The debris missed them, but they could still feel the heat of the burning remains. Burke wished he could have seen the explosion head on, damn the risk.

Waiting at least a minute more, the two men decided they were out of danger - at least the worst of it - and climbed up the cliff face. Reaching the edge first, Burke offered his hand to help his partner up. Butch frowned back at him, thinking of the possibility of being dropped, but that rare serious expression had returned on that inked face. Eyes narrowed, Butch took the hand and let himself be pulled to the top. Once he was safely on his own two feet, he watched with Burke as the smoldering estate collapsed in on itself. Burke looked practically love struck.

"Well, in't that a pretty sight?"

Cavendish nearly nodded, thinking with pleasure about the roasted remnants that Wallace Jeffries had become.

"Local law'll know this was you," he remarked.

Burke shrugged. "Ach, add'em to the laundry list."

Butch smiled, but quickly remembered himself, as well as all that had transpired. His fist connected with a tattooed jaw, almost sending Burke over the edge again.

"This don't mean I ain't still pissed at'cha for earlier!" he bellowed.

Burke rotated his jaw as he rubbed it, chuckling.

"Good lad. Whatta ye say we find the reward?"

Butch rolled his eyes. His shaky trust with Burke had been shaken even further after the theatrics inside the presently blazing estate. Still, he was the one watching the fire instead of Jeffries thanks to the Irish bastard. Also... he really wanted that damn money.

"Fine."


	9. Changes of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes go to a hideaway for some... alone time.

"Ye don't trick a fox like ol' Burke, I tell ye."

Burke pulled the coin he had stolen from the brothel out of his pocket and rolled it over his knuckles as he and Butch ventured around the wreckage. The house itself was still burning, but fortunately for them, the stables had been just out of reach of the explosion, albeit with very overwrought horses. Two of the animals were already strapped to a wagon. They strained against their halters, the whites of their eyes visible. As Burke entered the stable and carefully approached them, Butch lingered by the entrance, standing watch.

"Men like Jeffries are all alike," Burke continued, pocketing the coin and getting close enough to the tethered horses. In no time he had them soothed. Butch nearly laughed. The slippery little potato-eater could charm anything that breathed.

"Once he had ye done in, only a matter o'time before he done the same to me." Burke climbed over a wheel and reached into the wagon, lifting a canvas. "Either to renege on the reward, or because he'd get bored o'me usefulness. O'course... the fact that ye were such a catch also figured into me change of heart."

Butch pretended to not hear the compliment, staring at the blaze.

"Folks'll be comin' round soon, 'cause of that," he said, nodding toward the destruction.

Removing two chests, Burke tied them to each horse and gently unfastened them from the wagon. Mounting one, he rode to the gate, leading the other to follow. Butch opened the chest hanging from his new mount and inspected the coins within. They seemed genuine, but after Burke's tomfoolery, one could never be too careful.

"D'ye suppose yer lads are still alive?" Burke asked him as he got in the saddle.

"Dunno. Only one way to find out."

Though nervous, the horses obeyed their riders and left the stable. Burke eased his ride ahead by several paces.

"Don't fret," he said, turning his head to regard Burke with smile. "I'll be up front, like last time."

Butch said nothing as they rode on, secretly appreciating the "courtesy" granted him by the two-timer. Well... that and the way Burke's ass bounced in the saddle.

*

Retracing their steps, the two men came to an area of the field where the vegetation was scorched, the fire traps burnt out, and the bodies on the ground motionless. One of which seemed like it might be Jésus, but it was too covered in soot to yet identify.

Suddenly a corpse sat straight up, shoving the other body on top of it aside.

"BUTCH!" a not-at-all dead Frank happily exclaimed. Both his motion and loud greeting were enough to make Butch's horse rear up and nearly kick him.

"Keep yer trap shut, idiot!" Butch growled.

The soot-covered body also rose, and indeed it turned out to be Jèsus. He looked as though he had fallen through a chimney.

"Woulda paid to see what you went through, brother," Burke said, receiving a glare.

"We thought about comin' to help ya, but then saw some people comin' in from town," Frank explained. "So we played dead just in case. Almost hightailed it when that house blew up!"

"God forbid you risk yer lives tryin' to save little ol' me," Butch muttered indignantly. He grabbed Jèsus by the wrist and pulled him onto his horse with him. Burke did the same with Frank.

"If people are headed for the estate, we can manage headin' back to town with little trouble," Cavendish said. "We grab the rest of the boys and get the hell outta this shithole, split up to throw anyone loyal to Jeffries off, if any'r still left."

As before, Burke rode ahead of Butch. The question of what to do with this man was becoming troublesome. Before the truth came to light of Burke's original intent, his obnoxious behavior was just starting to be overshadowed by his skills and effectiveness as a proper teammate; a good thing too, as his potential as a future sexual conquest was thus becoming quite plausible. Burke had also double-crossed the man who had hired him to retrieve Butch. This was a conundrum.

Three times during the ride back to town, the group had to remain still in the dark to avoid detection by the locals. They avoided the roads, though to do so in the dark was dangerous, and eventually got back to the rest of the gang, who was pleasantly surprised to see them.

"Everyone could see and hear the place blow up from here, we thought you were goners," Barret said. "We almost lost the remaining horses a second time from that blast!"

Standing behind him was the remainder of the men, standing close to the retrieved horses, their halters tied in several knots to their posts.

"Folk won't stay out in the estate much longer," Cavendish announced. "We're splittin' up and meetin' a full day from now. Saddle up!"

"Ye know of somewhere to hide?" Burke asked as the men prepared for departure.

"I know somewhere, yeah." Butch answered. Checking the stars to confirm his whereabouts, he directed his commands back to the posse. "Split in half, one go West, another go North. I'll be headin' North."

"Alone?" Barret asked.

"This one's comin' with me," the scarred man replied, jabbing Burke's side with a long-nailed finger. Even Burke, startled by the prod, looked at him in surprise.

"Don't trust him to be outta my sight," Cavendish clarified with a pointed scowl in the Irishman's direction. "Now off with the lot of ya!"

As the rest departed, Burke smiled at Butch, who merely pointed in the direction of their destination.

"North. Keep up, if ya can. Gotta make sure you stay outta trouble."

Burke's grin became suggestive. "Will that involve tying me up?"

Butch glowered at him. Damn that stupid smile.

"You try anythin'..." he warned him. "You prove that I can't trust you..."

Burke placed his hand over his chest. "Ye break me'eart to say such hurtful things. What kinda fella d'ye take me for?"

Butch considered pulling out his gun, but he dug his heels into his horse instead.

"Yer pushin' it."

*

A three hour ride later, the pair of outlaws came upon what Burke initially thought was a very large supply shack. Ramshackle and looking to be on its last breath, he realized it was a small, decrepit cabin. The pathetic structure did not seem to have been inhabited for over a decade, and he thought to touch it might knock it over entirely.

It was perfect.

"Not many people give this a second look, I imagine," Burke stated as the two of them dismounted.

"Tie up and see to the horses," Butch said, acting as though he had not been listening. "In the back."

Burke did as told, leading both animals to a rickety overhanging draped from the rear of the cabin. If he was to regain what trust he had originally set up with his partner, he had to be obedient as a sight hound. Setting out water and food for the horses, he walked back around the house. For a moment he expected to return with the barrel of Butch's pistol in his face, and the other man did indeed hold the weapon, but instead was carefully listening through the derelict wall. Gently grasping the doorknob, he swiftly entered and must have found nothing to his dissatisfaction, because he returned outside with his gun in its holster.

"All clear," he declared, returning inside.

Exhaling a breath he had not realized he was holding, Burke cautiously followed. He knew the trouble he had caused towards someone as ruthless as Butch Cavendish might still mean he was in for a very elaborate trap. Would he still be killed? Would Butch have his way with him and then put a bullet in his skull? Or maybe vice-versa? Reassuring himself with the thought that he still had not been killed yet, he entered the cabin.

In his heightened state of tension, Burke's heart leapt when he tripped on an unseen dip in the uneven floorboards. Those steely fingers gripped his arm as Butch prevented him from falling.

"Watch your step." Somewhere between returning into the cabin and letting Burke in, Butch's voice had become different. An already rough timbre seemed to become even more so, taking on a husky quality. His grip on Burke's arm remained longer than need be, and silver-blue eyes met hazel-green ones. The moment the grasp loosened, Burke nervously laughed and scrutinized the small space of the cabin. For someone who usually acted as the charmer, he felt strange to be the shy one for once. He practically felt Cavendish's eyes burning into him as he walked around the interior.

"Cozy," the Irishman remarked, tossing his bowler onto a nearby unsteady hat rack as he explored. The indoors was just as broken down as the outside. Everything was covered in dust, suggesting this hiding place had not been used for a long while. He came to a stop at a ratty old mattress, the only sign of bedding. Two pillows lay on it, little dust bombs in themselves. Sheets lay in a crumpled ball next to it, stained by the rusty water used to wash them. A lamp sat at its side, oil still present within. Glancing outside, he could see that dawn was approaching, the sky steadily growing lighter, though still quite dark.

Turning to face his partner, he saw that Cavendish had removed his own hat, running fingers through long strings of unwashed hair. In staring at the warped floor as he approached Burke, his behavior seemed peculiar until the other man contemplated that perhaps this was Butch's own brand of shyness. Silent, Burke walked toward him so that they could convene even sooner, both men slowing to a stop.

Their faces remained only inches from one another. Burke could have sworn their hearts beat in a simultaneous pace. He listened to his partner's breaths. Butch stared at the pulse at Burke's throat, momentarily entranced, before he looked again into the vivid hazel eyes.

Little more than a second later, they launched themselves, colliding like dogs in a fighting pit. Their mouths interlocked, and Butch did not practice gentility. Burke was not shocked, considering who he was with, and he was no weakling when it came to sex, but presently he wanted less of the pain and more of the fucking. Cavendish's roughness was almost too much to handle this soon, especially with the biting. Lord, the biting... Burke loved it, and as he felt himself adapting to his partner's progress, he decided to bite back, just to see what the response would be. Butch only bit harder, something Burke would have to keep in mind in the future.

Crying out in a mixture of pain and arousal, Burke tugged at the other's clothes, desperate to have him naked. Butch had the same idea, and he backed off just long enough to undo his buttons and remove his coat, waistcoat, and shirt in less than half a minute. Burke did the same and barely had his own shirt off when the teeth were on him again, this time with such fervor that the Irishman almost lost his balance and fell. Cavendish was like a wild animal on him, vicious and relentless, and he (very briefly) wondered if he would be killed during their interlude.

Oh well, he thought. As long as it's during the afterglow...

Mouths connected again and Burke took the opportunity as presented, licking the split in Butch's lip. The resulting moan was heavenly.

They rutted against one another, naked to the waist, until Burke sank to the mattress, taking Cavendish with him. As they fervently took off the rest of their clothes, the younger of the two reached into his pocket, removing the coin. He flipped it, flattening his palm over it when it landed.

"Call it."

Butch paused, squinting in confusion. "What??"

"Call it!"

"Heads!"

Burke lifted his hand and examined the coin, snickering.

"Oh well."

Rolling over, he grabbed the lamp and poured some of its oil into his hand, returning to the mattress and straddling Butch's lap. Rubbing his palms together, he smiled innocently as he reached down, one hand teasing at his own anus, the other smoothly closing around Butch's cock, which was already at half mast. The fingers of Burke's tattooed hand eased into the puckered pink orifice behind his testes, and as a split-lipped face nuzzled his own, he gently guided the now erect, slick organ closer and closer. He pushed himself down, welcoming Butch inside him, and Butch bit him in kind, groaning through teeth clamped down on his newfound lover's shoulder. His nails, dirty and untrimmed, dug into a pale backside and dragged, the succeeding red marks all the brighter on Burke's near-luminous complexion. Burke moaned, the pain exciting him all the more, and he writhed as Butch thrust, insides secure around a slick, throbbing cock.

Their passionate, desperate encounter, with none but the brightening sky as their audience, lasted about ten minutes. Head thrown back and exposing his beautifully illustrated throat, Burke clenched his hands around his lover's shoulders in a grip of iron, savoring the sensation of enveloping Butch, feeling filled with him. Burke reached his peak first, tightening around Butch, which brought him to his own climax a few minutes later. Gasping for air, Burke collapsed on top of Cavendish, feeling the body beneath him become rigid for a moment. At first he thought the motion was an echo of the climax, but then concluded it was from annoyance. Hell, if they had gone on much longer, Butch likely would have been in danger of changing his mind.

Feeling each other's hammering hearts as they regained their breath, both noted the stickiness of Burke's seed, released on Butch's front.

"We're gonna get stuck together," Burke pointed out.

"Shit," Butch replied with a smirk. "You been stuck to me since the day we met."

He listened to the hearty laugh which followed, blaming his lack of irritation towards the sound on his currently replete state. As his newest lover rolled off of him, head resting on a pillow and sending dust flying, Butch thought back on the confusion that was the past week. Again he found himself thinking that he should just kill Burke and leave his carcass in the desert. He turned on his side, staring at the younger man, who seemed to already be drifting into sleep, and wondered if joining him would invite risk of being killed in his sleep.

 _I'd wake up before he could try it_ , he reasoned.

Eyes opening, Burke gave Butch a sleepy smile and turned toward him.

"Mmm." He lifted a hand and almost placed his fingertip against the harelip. Butch snapped his jaws before the other man could get close enough, making Burke pull away and giggle. Rolling onto his back, Burke stared at the other man until he shut his eyes and slept. Good news, since this meant he would not be yammering on and on.

Looking over the still form and peaceful expression, Butch found his own eyelids growing heavy. Back facing his unlikely friend and new lover, he mulled over Burke's fate.

 _I'll just kill him tomorrow_ , he thought. _After all this is done..._

As fell asleep, he ignored the invasive thought that he had been saying the same thing to himself for the whole week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, does anyone have any ideas for the name of this pairing? It's just that Burkendish sounds like something in Swedish Chef language. Cavenburke? WendigoPyschosis? lol


	10. Trading Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short but sweet chapter: MORE SEX.

At midday, Burke slowly awoke. His bladder was full, but not so much that he immediately rose. Instead, he watched the resting figure at his side. Though clearly sound asleep, Butch was far from inactive. Every few seconds, some part of him would twitch, and every so often he would give a weary kick.

No wonder none could sneak up on him, especially not in his sleep.

Butch grunted as he awoke, likely sensing he was being watched, Burke deduced.

"Where you goin'?" he groggily asked as Burke ascended from the mattress.

"Me back teeth'r swimmin'," the other replied. "Gotta piss." Fully nude, he strode to the front door, aiming for the dirt. Hearing another stream inside, he glanced back to where Butch now stood, having found a bucket and now urinating into it. When finished, Burke did not let go of his penis, holding it as he moseyed back to the mattress. He stood over his partner, who descended onto the bedding, limbs spread out. Cavendish smiled up at him hungrily.

"Still sleepy?" Burke questioned, biting at his inked bottom lip.

"Not near," Butch said, and he hooked his foot around the back of the other's knee, sending him sprawling on top of him with a startled laugh. He rolled Burke onto his back and felt for the coin on the floor.

"Tails I do you again." He flipped the coin and lifted his hand. Peeking at the result, he hesitated. "Lucky boy."

Burke liked the cryptic but very telling words, reaching for the lamp oil again and lubing both pairs of hands. Feeling playful in his usual nasty way, Butch turned his back on the other and sat down, right on Burke's stomach, knocking the air out of him. The Irishman could not complain, not when he immediately felt slippery hands mastering his gushy and bringing his elder to full growth.

Butch rolled his hips forward, displaying the spread halves of his backside.

"Well?" he asked impatiently. "Don't make me do all the work!"

Licking his teeth, Burke did as told, though he did so with the caution of someone asked to pet a tiger. Hand smooth and oily, he tenderly swept his palm down the small of Butch's back until it reached the warm valley that was the cleavage of his arse. Gently tracing the creased ring, he smiled at the way it reacted to his teasing, feeling the hint of a tremble darting through Butch's frame. Slowly inserting one finger, then two, his smile widened into a grin as he heard a breathy moan escape from Cavendish.

Breath long and heavy, Butch adjusted to the feeling of Burke inside him. He had had a proper look at Burke in all his unclothed glory minutes before in the noon light. That cock was an impressive specimen. Hopefully not too impressive. Too big and it might... He angrily stamped out the thought as it crawled into the forefront of his brain. No, he would not allow something so trivial and long gone get in the way of his good goddamn time. He was going to enjoy himself, god fucking damn it.

"S'been a while," he gruffly admitted. Burke stroked at one of the cheeks with his thumb, a wordless attempt at comfort.

Properly slick and stretched open, Cavendish impaled himself on Irish cock, grunting at the sensation. Once he encased, he took a deep breath, preparing himself before he began to move. He did not take long to increase speed. His riding, though fast, was not as fast as the tugging of his own cock, as indicated by the movement of his elbow. What entertained Burke the most beyond the insane pleasure he was feeling inside his friend was the sound emitting from Butch's imperfect lips. Though he had made plenty of noises when penetrating Burke, being penetrated himself turned him into a very vocal lover. His cries seemed to reverberate in the ramshackle little cabin.

 _Would he be this loud if we weren't in the middle of nowhere_ , Burke wondered. Likely not.

Feeling playful, Burke looked for somewhere to put his hands, and his eyes naturally went to Butch's hair. Reaching up, he grabbed a handful and began to lightly tug. Beginning was all he managed to do, his hands slapped away in less than a second. Even as the one receiving instead of giving, he was not the boss of this affair. Resting his hands on Butch's hips, he did not get the same reaction, and so the hands remained.

Thrusting in time with Butch's own movement, Burke sat up while his partner bent forward. Cavendish placed more weight on his knees and adjusted accordingly as he felt the younger man slip away. He quickly realized as his ass was lifted that Burke himself was trying to rise to his knees as well. Elbow propping himself up, Butch was entered again and he continued pleasuring himself, squeezing and pulling and moaning while Burke plunged into him. In this position, the tattooed outlaw was able to see the coin on the floor...

Burke smiled and kept thrusting.

Still tired from their misadventure and only having slept a handful of hours - not to mention this being their second session of lovemaking - they lasted a little less than their morning romp. Burke wanted to drape himself over Butch as he climbed to his peak, but after the falter with the hair-pulling, he aired on the side of caution. In his release, Butch's entire body stiffened like a steel rod, and he collapsed to the mattress, motionless as a corpse whilst that engorged organ relentlessly pumped into him. Three sustained thrusts were followed by the loading of his insides with Burke's hot seed.

Waiting for his heart to slow down and his breath to return, Burke sat slumped over, staring at Butch's immobile form. Though they had now fucked each other twice within the last twenty-four hours, one was still able to hold himself up while the other seemed to be either unconscious or dead. Worry knitting his brow, Burke nearly reached out in an attempt to revive him, but Butch finally moved, lifting himself on shaky arms. Crawling on heavy limbs, he beat the rest of the dust from his pillow and fell on his side, back turned to his lover.

 _Getting too old, luv?_ Burke left the question to himself, fearing a kick in the face. He sat down beside Butch, hoping to get a glance at the weathered face that he was finding unusually pretty in its severity and disfigurement. Ghostly blue eyes stared ahead at a far wall, expression unreadable. Tattooed hand ready to provide comfort, he was a breath away from stroking long brown hair when Butch spoke.

"I'm tired now." It was not the start of a conversation. It was a warning. Burke was tempted to instigate his temper, but after their little romp, his antics would be the exact opposite of tolerated, and he hated to ruin an otherwise wonderful stay in the cabin. Holding back the urge to sigh, he rested on his back and let sleep take him.


	11. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fun and games. It had to happen at some point.

The sun was on its way toward the horizon. Its light, though framed by clouds, insinuated its way into the window. Butch was already awake before the glare could reach him.

Head resting on his hand, Cavendish watched the still face of his sleeping comrade. Burke slept like the dead, as sound as the other slept light. What Butch could remember of his own dreams were chaos, and every time he slipped deeply enough into that world, he felt himself pulled away, fortunately for him. He could only speculate what the kaleidoscope of faeries and leprechauns was dancing around in that inky brain as Burke snoozed.

Speaking of ink...

As his chest peacefully rose and fell, Burke's tattoos were traced by a single fingertip. Cavendish followed every line and every curve, from one side of the man's jaw to the other. With these intricate designs etched into his skin, Burke did not nearly look so... dull. His exterior seemed to reflect his interior, besides just obnoxiousness. Butch came to the pale neck, making little circles and eventually stopping at the throat, where he flattened his hand over a steady pulse. There he felt a shudder and heard a change in Burke's breathing.

Green eyes fluttered open as Burke awoke, and he smiled at the feeling of one of those strong hands on his throat.

 _At least it's not to be strangled_ , he thought. He could tell what Butch was staring at.

"Moko."

"Huh?" What the hell language was Burke speaking, native Irish?? Butch's reaction must have been quite telling, because the younger man chuckled.

"That's what the islanders called them. My 'funny marks'."

Butch shook his head dismissively, and his expression had a strange softness to it as he looked the patterns over, at least Burke thought so. His tongue darted out just enough to lick his deformed lips.

"Maybe one day I'll eat one or two'a them."

"Me heart's a'flutter," Burke laughed, looking up at the feral human creature he had made love to twice - and survived. Butch did not often take off his hat, and Burke was pleased at the chance to see all of his hair. Being a denizen of the desert constantly on the move, Cavendish clearly was not one to often bathe himself, let alone his hair, but the other outlaw did not mind so much... though he entertained the notion of giving Butch a bath one day. Tiny strands of grey accented dark brown locks, most visible as the evening sun hit them like silver spider web.

Burke lifted a hand to caress the long unwashed mane, but Butch immediately tensed and sat up, securely out of arm's length. Understanding the not so subtle hint, Burke was nonetheless slightly disappointed. He looked sadly over the naked figure sitting before him, legs bent as though to shield at least some of himself. Butch refused to look at him. Deciding now was the time to change the subject, Burke gestured toward the foot which was missing several toes, taking care not to touch.

"How _did_ that happen, by the by?"

Cavendish finally looked at him, and some of his natural swagger returned to him.

"Ain't the boys tole' ya? Did it myself to win a bet."

"Is that a fact?"

A corner of Butch's mouth twitched. "It is."

Burke caught the tiny reaction and wondered just how much his friend was leaving out of his reply. Indeed, Butch deliberately remained vague in his answer. He only revealed the bare bones of the past and left out the bulk of the truth. He would never tell anyone, not even this absurd idiot, about the particulars of his past. Not how young he was when the "bet" happened, not the people involved, and not the sickening voices of the people in charge who sneered down at his restrained body.

"How many ya wanna bet he can snip off before he passes out?" He remembered one of them saying.

The sound of pounding hooves broke him from his memories, and none too soon. Throwing on his clothes, as he stood up from the bedding, and hurried outside. Burke could hear his footsteps creaking on the deteriorating porch. Exhaling long and stretching his limbs, the tattooed man turned and studied the coin still on the wooden floor. Still heads up. He picked it up, rolled it over his knuckles one more time, and pocketed it, getting up from the mattress as he heard the familiar voices of the gang speaking with their boss.

Burke joined Butch outside fully clothed, except for his bowler; he reckoned walking out with his bell end dangling in the breeze might get him publicly executed. His inked designs stretched as he grinned with amusement over the sight which was greeting them. The entirety of the gang - save for the unfortunate bastard at the bar - had arrived, looking a little worse for wear but all in one piece. Amusingly Jèsus was still covered in soot. Burke put a friendly hand on his partner's shoulder and quickly removed it when he felt his friend stiffen under the contact. Butch's expression was blank slate.

"This job was a good one wasn't it?" Burke offered. He left off the little detail concerning the nonsense he pulled at the Jeffries' estate.

Butch looked over his crew, buttoning his vest and putting on his coat. In the past week, they had only lost one man. Cavendish had avoided a very close brush with death by plodding idiot in a fop's costume. The money was gained. He turned his head to address Burke.

"Yeah. It was." He bowed his attention to the gang. "Stay here while I fetch the horses."

The gang, having ridden for so long already without a rest, held back their grumbling, but they could not restrain their downcast expressions once Butch had gone behind the cabin. Despite their mood, they were ready to do as told, knowing things could be much worse. They miserably awaited the order for immediate departure, Burke still standing on the porch in front of them.

"So Butch ain't dead," Barret remarked, studying the tattooed face before him intently.

"Apparently not," the Irishman replied, getting the sneaky notion that the other man had suspicions of his own over what had happened the night before... either that or suspicions of what his boss and new partner had been up to inside that cabin.

Still studying him, Barret finally opened his pack and tossed Burke a bottle.

"Thought we'd make some withdrawal from the brothel in case we made it out alive," Barret explained as their newfound compatriot read the label. Whiskey, and not just any whiskey: uisce beatha. The real thing. Burke grinned.

"A pleasure to do business with ye'boys!" he exclaimed as Butch returned with the new horses. The gang expected him to mount and bark the order to keep moving, but instead he removed two chests from the saddles.

"Gentlemen," he announced, laying the chests on the ground and opening them. "Our reward."

The gang seemed more ecstatic than children watching fireworks.

"Skinny, if you would..." he continued, gesturing the youth to come forward so that he might count and split the earnings between the nine of them. "While Skinny takes care of the finances, I could use some supper."

The men, realizing their exit was not immediate, sighed in relief. Horses were dismounted and packs were unloaded. Limbs were stretched and backs were cracked.

"Don't suppose any fireplaces work inside," Burke suggested as he took a swig of the whiskey that had been brewed in his country of birth. This Barret was an alright fellow, he thought.

"Just a little place for a cauldron," Butch replied. "No chimney above it, only use that to boil water."

"Coffee then," Burke offered jokingly, heading back inside to retrieve his hat. He heard footsteps behind him as he was followed, and as he placed the bowler back on his head, he could almost feel his friend's breath on the back of his neck.

"Where'r you headed," Butch asked, "further on down the road?" His voice was low out of discretion, and sadly lacked the husky desire it had only hours earlier.

Burke turned and found himself inches away from the other man. Though they stood at near equal height, Butch seemed to stand taller, lifting his head and looking down his slightly uneven nose as though his partner were only three feet tall. The warmth was gone from Cavendish now, replaced by his usual reptile manner, all cold blood and desert sand. Even the hand which clasped his illustrated throat felt colder.

"Dunno," Burke admitted. "One day I'll have to leave. I have other employers."

"Ones that want me dead?" Butch asked grimly.

"Don't most?" the other asked, trying his most innocent smile.

Cavendish was silent for a few seconds, and only when he gave a joyless laugh did Burke realize he was not at risk of being gutted. Not yet anyway.

"You did a shit thing, Burke," the older outlaw said. "You betrayed my trust, just when I was startin' to like you."

Burke's smile vanished, understanding charm would not get him out from under the cannibal's hold. He looked sadly at his partner.

"But you also saved my life," Butch added. "So what do we do about that?" The question sounded rhetorical. Burke suddenly felt at a loss for words, a feeling he had not experienced since boyhood.

"One more kiss...?" he finally suggested.

The older man leaned ever closer, a hair away from granting the wish. He paused as his sometime lover waited, eyes closed in anticipation.

"No," he finally said. "I don't think so."

Burke opened his eyes, taken aback as Butch moved off of him.

"Why not?" he asked, almost childishly.

The other hesitated before heading out the door, turning back to Burke with a wicked smile.

"More fun to make you wait."

That sounded like a sure promise. Burke grinned, following him back out.

After a welcome meal and some much needed rest, the gang felt even better when they were granted their shares of the money. Burke could already hear Frank muttering about "such purdy things" on which he would be spending his cut of the pay.

"You buy anymore dresses, yer horse's legs'll break under the weight," Ray responded.

Burke covered his mouth to stifle a giggle. At least that was one mystery solved on this adventure.

"Where to, Butch?" Barret asked as they climbed into the saddles.

"The river," their boss answered. "Back where we started."

As the gang - plus their one transitory member - rode through the prairie, Burke took his hands off the reins, arms open and holding his balance as though he were sitting still.

"It was in and through the window broads," he sang loudly, not caring if his head became a target. "And a'the twirtlie wirlies o't..."

No rocks met with his skull and he looked around. No one held stones, too happy to be bothered.

"The sweetest kiss that e'er I got," he continued, "was from my Dainty Davie..."

He sang on until the song was done, and so high were the gang in their morale that they did not seem to notice the lyrics were intended for a man. It did not matter to Burke, as long as Butch noticed, and based on the shaking of the older man's head, he likely had.

*

The river that resembled a giant blue caterpillar lay in the distance, morning sun causing it to gleam and glitter. The town where Burke and Butch had first met was certain to be even further beyond. As the gang took their rest at said riverside and refilled their skins, their leader happened to spy his Irish friend about ten paces town the bank, absent-mindedly moving around stones with his foot.

"Which way do you go?" he asked when he noticed he had an audience.

"West," Butch stared over the river and the prairie ahead of it. "You?"

"East," Burke glumly kicked a little at the gravel, staring down at his feet. "Along the coast. Might as well split up now."

Butch glanced at Burke and decided seeing him so unhappy was somehow not right... unnatural perhaps.

"Reckon so," he said. "You'd drive me crazy enough to kill ya sooner'r later."

As his gang waited, Butch stood by Burke's horse, looking up at the tattooed rider.

"Yer always welcome to come with me," the hope in Burke's voice rang clear as a dinner bell.

"I stay under my own employ." Butch looked away for a moment in consideration. "Next time you need a partner though... I ain't interested."

Burke laughed. "I'll keep that in mind." He was tempted to lean over and give Butch a kiss, partly to piss him off, partly because he was going to miss the beastly old thing. He would miss Butch's blue eyes and the razor bones of his cheeks. He would miss the fierce harelip and even the unwashed hair. And what he would likely miss most of all was annoying the hell out of him.

"Oh, another thing." Burke removed the coin from his pocket and flipped it toward Cavendish, who caught it midair. "I'll be back for that. I'd say... draw head, you keep it 'til next time."

Butch lifted an eyebrow as though he had no clue what his friend was talking about.

"I drew tails last."

Burke smiled, winking. "Sure ye did." And with a tip of his hat, he rode off.

Butch watched Burke shrink in size the further he rode until the figure was but a dark speck. He looked down at the coin, flipped it, and smiled, pocketing the new keepsake.

"Alright, we're outta here, boys!" Getting on his horse, he broke into a full gallop as his men cheered and hollered in pursuit.

A wolfish grin lingered in his mind longer after he headed West, as did intricate etchings in ink. A voice which sang loudly and purred endless allure echoed in his memories. He did not know if he and Burke would see each other again, let alone when. He would not tell any of his gang, nor anyone in the world, but he hoped they would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> Dainty Davie - composed by Robert Burns


End file.
